Second Chances
by butterfly-pieces
Summary: Sequel to Prophecy Bound. Allison remembers dying. An instrument of the devil, so to speak, as the interests of man and devil were the same. Now she has been reborn and not even the devil knows what for. John/Allison.
1. Disclaimer

**Disclaimer: **I have no right over the Prophecy franchise, the movies, the characters and whatnot. Nor am I versed in the mythology of the movies as a whole.

**Author's Note: **The following fanfic is a sequel to "Prophecy Bound". It takes place after the final installment, "Prophecy: Forsaken" and, as I'm not too sure what timeline or time-period the movies were following, I'm only going to say it takes place a few years after the last movie (and, as the story progresses, maybe 20+) and not pay that much attention to actual dates.

Just like the prequel, it might read a little strange because I never meant for it to be a full-fledged fanfic. I'd been given random prompts and said prompts gave birth to short pieces which, then, I realized, connected themselves to each other and gave birth to a whole idea.

I'll start each chapter with the prompt that inspired it, to kind of give you an idea of where it came from.

Whether the idea is seamed perfectly, I'm not quite sure, but here it is.

I do wish to apologize that it took me so long to upload this, especially since it had been finished for quite some time, but with work and my own personal life...and the fact that my hands/arms have been hurting more often than I'd like, I spend less time on the computer and more time just resting. Hopefully, the wait is worth the read...


	2. Chapter 1 Dancing with the Devil

"The Dance" Jerry Goldsmith

* * *

**Chapter 1. Dancing with the Devil **

* * *

Allison _remembers_ dying.

She remembers having the book – holding it to her chest, keeping it away from _them_ – and the homicidal angels – the ones that wanted to know of the end before it came, who wanted to prevent it, to keep humans from finding their way into heaven.

She survived getting shot – the perks of being a nephalim – but Stark was not a forgiving angel and chased her even after his fight was lost, finding a human to play the role of assassin once and for all.

She remembers her heart being ripped out – the final death.

The only thing is...she's not dead.

She's not in heaven, she's not in hell, and she remembers _everything_.

She sees a light before she sees a shape – it looks like a man – but everything is too bright for her to tell. She flails her arms, trying to breathe, shaking because it's cold, and then she sees her: a woman covered in sweat, crying, with a man by her side, ready to receive her.

She doesn't understand, doesn't know why her eyes keep trying to close, why her hands can't reach that far and why she's whimpering instead of talking. Once she feels her hand – her tiny, little hand – wrapped around the woman's finger, she understands.

* * *

The family she has been reborn into – the Crowe family – isn't a bad one. Actually, they're very...comfortable and lucky. They named her Hope. Allison tries to find comfort in the name – in her situation – but she doesn't.

She doesn't cry as often as normal babies would, which sometimes worries her mother, and she avoids trying to do anything that might clue them to what she is – what she knows. She slips, sometimes, trying to turn when her mother says, "Look, daddy's home," and smiling when something funny shows up on the television. They don't think too much of it, though.

* * *

Once she's old enough to go to school, it's hard for her to socialize. She keeps expecting the world to end or some angel to try to kill her or for _him_ to come back. She's smarter than most kids – she still remembers math – and it's hard for her to pretend she's learning to write for the first time. This hand is new, so the handwriting is different, but the spelling is just the same. She's left-handed again. She didn't think she'd be.

* * *

Junior High is worse. She's expected to socialize more because her dad is going into politics and her mom has become the socialite of the city. She forces a few smiles here and there, makes some genuine friends, but it's still there, prickling at her skin, the knowledge that she might wake up and see her own reflection again – the one she was _first_ born with, the one that includes the scar on her cheek.

* * *

She's in High School and even has a boyfriend. She had tried not to, but he had been very persistent. It's sweet, for a while, and she almost feels like she's settling in, finally...until she sees a man wearing a black cloak walking away, curls of black covering the nape of his neck, hands in his pockets.

She breaks up with Scott the day after. She's still Allison, not Hope, and for whatever reason she's been brought back, no one should have to suffer the consequences of becoming tangled in it. Her brother did and looked how well that went for him.

* * *

She's a senior now, fully bloomed and beautiful; the gem of her parent's eye. Her brown/auburn hair cascades in soft waves down to her waist, tied back neatly by a small headpiece that cost more than her dress. Her dress is lilac, tight around her chest and waist, flowing perfectly below that, giving her room to move her legs without worrying about having to keep a five-inch distance from people. She feels taller in this body, too, but she knows it's just the fact that she's had to wear heels more often because of these events. Her skin is a little lighter, not like what she's used to – not at all what her heritage gave her when she was just _Allison_. She hates this new appearance, even if it's not so different from the first, but she looks more beautiful than she ever was – her privileged upbringing might have something to do with it – and she misses her scar.

"Is this what hell is like?" She wonders aloud, standing outside, on the terrace, while the party continues on inside. No matter how beautiful she might look or how many things she has, she doesn't feel like Hope – with her memories, her echoed appearance of what she was and will always be, she feels like Allison.

"I can answer that with absolute certainty: no."

She knows that voice – her heart knows that voice, too, because it immediately starts pumping blood into her system, so quickly that she feels lightheaded for a moment, and then she remembers that breathing steadily might make that stop.

_Breathe_, she tells herself.

"You know," he continues, "most people would take the opportunity of rebirth as just that, a chance to become someone else, someone new, and yet you sad, little monkey, decide to waste it."

"What do you want, John?" She uses the name he's taught her to use rather than the other, even though her mind is screaming that other name louder than her mouth is speaking.

"Nothing, actually, I just came to say hello."

She finally allows herself a look – it was meant to be just a glimpse – and she's quickly dumbfounded by what her eyes see. It's him, all right – _he_ hasn't changed at all – but he's not in his usual black shirt and trousers attire, the black cloak also absent. Instead, he's actually wearing a tuxedo – black, of course – with a perfect bow, a white buttoned-blouse and everything else that follows, to make him a _fine_ looking gentleman – a dangerous one.

"Why?" She blurts out.

He doesn't look at her, though he must know she's staring at him, as he smiles, "Why what, exactly?"

She turns, facing him, arms crossed, "I'm supposed to be dead. I did what you wanted me to do. I kept the book safe, the pages are lost. They'll never find his name. Why hasn't the world ended yet? Isn't this what we worked for? What you used me for?"

He looks at her, out of the corner of his eye, and she freezes – her whole insides freeze. He looks ahead again, "I did not **use** you, Allison." Her name, coming from his lips, gives her a familiar sensation. "I simply allowed you to be a part of something you were already a part of. I do not know why you were reborn in this body. Your family seems unimportant, for now. Perhaps this was His gift to you. As you say, He works in mysterious ways."

"So, you didn't do this?" She accuses, almost immediately.

He smiles, completely, "No, Allison, I did not, though if I had, I would expect you to be a little more grateful."

She scoffs, "Grateful? How can I be grateful when I **remember** everything? I know what happened to me. I remember my parents, my brother, my life, my death – everything, John. It's still in me."

She almost mentions what _else_ she remembers dreams...of him, of _them_, but that's a memory that she doesn't want to touch – something she can't handle right now.

He turns, walks closer to her, until their faces are mere inches away, "As I said, **He** works in mysterious ways."

She glares at him – feels angry yet scared, but the anger is stronger, and he can feel it, too. It's almost palpable. He reaches for her cheek, touching where he remembers her scar to be.

"Dance with me."

That blinks the anger away, replacing it with shock, "What?"

He offers his open palm for her to take, "Dance with me. I assure you, Allison, it is not that difficult."

She glares, "Haven't we been dancing this whole time?"

His lips curl up into a smile as he nods approvingly, "Sass, it suits you. You take after your mother, I take it?"

"Which one?" She narrows her eyes at him before, finally – almost hesitatingly – taking his hand.

"Both, perhaps," he leads her into the room, through the open doors, and people start clearing a path to the dance floor. She doesn't know if John has an identity here and wants to avoid looking at her "parents", keeping her eyes on John.

"John, what am I doing here?" She whispers, keeping one hand on his shoulder while the other one is firmly clasped in his.

"You are attending your mother's charity ball and looking rather fetching while doing so."

"Enough messing around," she ignores the flutter in her stomach. "Why do I remember everything? Why I was reborn to be their daughter? Why didn't I die when I was supposed to? Why isn't it over yet?"

His face grows serious as he looks into her eyes and she thanks God – or not – that he's leading because she almost froze, but he's moving her, so she's staying on auto-pilot.

"What if I told you, Allison, that your questions are my own?"

She blinks, "I thought the devil knew everything."

He sighs and he almost seems _normal_, like something cracked his super-cool mask. "Not quite."

She looks around, sees a few eyes on them – including her parents' eyes. They seem happy...they are good people.

"So, I'm just supposed to pretend to be someone I'm not? That I don't remember anything? That I'm Hope Crowe?"

"Aren't you?"

"John," she warns.

He stops their dance, catches her by surprise, and takes her hand – the one that had been in his hand the whole time – and kisses the back of it, smiling, before saying a few parting words, "Look in the mirror, Allison, and ask yourself that question; not who you look like, but who you are. Who are you? The girl in the mirror, or the one who wields the eyes?"

He leaves, leaving her dumbfounded in the middle of the dance floor.

After the event is done with, she explains to her mom he's just an old friend, a guy he always liked but was wary of because he tended to scare her, kind of unpredictable and reckless.

Not an entire lie, to be honest.

That night, she does look in the mirror and sees her, sees Hope, a prettier and cleaner version of Allison, but feels...feels a lot like Allison.

She doesn't know what the game is, what the purpose of her existence is, but it is what it is and she can only hope to find out some time soon, before the confusion of her identity settles in again.


	3. Chapter 2 The Cold Within

"cold"

* * *

**Chapter 2. Cold Within**

* * *

Allison is sitting in front of the fireplace – her parents, in this life, being so wealthy as to actually allow her to have one in the bedroom of her very own apartment – and, even though she's wearing her pajamas, a quilt over that and has the fire a couple of feet away from her face, she feels terribly cold.

It's kind of hard to thaw the cold when it starts from the inside.

Something in the room shifts and she knows – she's become so used to him, to _this_, that she always just knows.

"My father is going to run for vice-president. Can you believe that?"

"Does this bother you?"

They're not her parents – not really. She was an orphan in her first life and, in this life, she still feels as such. But they saw her grow up, shared her pains and sadness, gave her everything she wanted – she often wonders if forcing her to be their only child was also part of God's plan...if this is all His plan, after all.

"No." She lies, then sighs, "Yes. Something bad is coming, John. Something worse."

"I know."

She turns to the direction where she hears him. He's standing next to her balcony doors, the moonlight sneaking in and covering most of him – it makes him look angelic, and not.

"What **do** you know?"

His face is unreadable – as placid as always – as he speaks, "Only what I've heard. Your father has become very important and certain turn of events might make him an even greater man."

"What am I supposed to do?" She murmurs, looking back at the fire.

"I do not know."

She shudders at the thought of the devil not knowing and then, it occurs to her, like a veil being pulled from her eyes.

"You don't know...or you don't want to tell me?" She looks at him, eyes hard.

He doesn't answer, not right away, and that, to her, is answer enough.

"Whatever will happen, I can't sit by and watch them get hurt." She stands up, gripping her quilt tighter, ignoring the shaking of her body – whether it's anger or cold, she doesn't bother to tell the difference anymore.

"That would be unwise," he says, and she can't read the gaze in his eyes – it's too dark – but she wishes she could, hoping it would betray his face.

"I won't. I couldn't stop it when my parents were taken from me, butchered, and my brother used as a tool for it. I won't let it happen again. I'm not a child in this body. I can stop it."

In the blink of an eye, he's in front of her. Now that she can read his eyes, she wishes she hadn't.

"I know."

And, then, he does the unexpected – something he is known to do well – and he seizes her face, his lips crushing hers. Both hands are on her cheeks as his lips dance – forcefully – against her mouth and, to her surprise, she's responding, her hands grabbing on to his arms for support.

Her quilt is forgotten on the floor and she feels the cold rush in, but inside, she's burning.

She moans into his mouth, ready to close the distance between them when, suddenly, there's nothing there.

She opens her eyes and feels nothing under her hands – nothing in front of her but air.

She touches her lips – still warm and sore, the only evidence that he was there; the only way she can convince herself this isn't a dream.

She looks back at the fire and ignores the renegade tear that streams down her cheek – just the one – as she realizes what just happened and what probably will happen.

She's meant to save her parents – the ones _chosen_ as her parents – and the devil cannot help her, not this time.

She can do this, she tells herself, she's done much more and worse.

She had been alone for most of her past life.

Being alone now should be no different...should it?


	4. Chapter 3 Never Trust a Devil

**Content Warning:** This particular chapter lives up to its "M" rating. If you can't handle it, just move along please, thank you!

* * *

"trust"

* * *

**Chapter 3. Never Trust a Devil**

* * *

Allison throws her door closed – thankful that she wasn't granted super strength to go along with her newly discovered precognitive ability or else she would've snapped the hinges off.

She runs to the kitchen – hoping that bottle of Jack Daniels that her friend, Zoe, gave her, is still hidden in one of the cabinets.

_For special sucky days, where you really need one._

She decides this is definitely one of those days.

She finds it behind the cookie jar – if she wasn't so pissed, shocked and scared, she'd find humor in this – and, hands shaking, sets it down on the counter, before looking for an adequately-sized cup.

_Screw that_, she thinks, going for a large cup, but putting a reasonable amount – half – in it. She takes her first gulp, feels the fiery liquid burn through her throat and coughs, forcing herself to set the cup down before she spills it.

She forces herself to breathe without coughing and takes another gulp, this one is easier than the other, but it still makes her eyes water – drinking not being something she is used to but, right now, she needs it.

The night's events flash through her eyes.

She's, of course, an only child and the pride of her family. Even if she chose what her mother considers a "demeaning" career – grade school teacher – she is loved by her family and well-liked by her father's followers, political or otherwise.

But when mom and dad bring home a man – her father's business associate, so to speak, and a foreigner who is helping her father with his campaign – her heart dropped.

It hadn't been John – that would've been unnerving – it was _him_.

It had been strange seeing him, at first, but not panic-inducing.

She had squinted, thinking that, perhaps, she knew him, but convinced she hadn't ever met him before.

Until they shook hands, that's when everything changed – that's when she remembered.

She had been the guardian of the book – it doesn't surprise her that she would recognize the person without the knowledge of the name – the book that told of the boy that would bring the Apocalypse, to welcome the monkeys to the kingdom of heaven and force the angels to lose their battle against the other angels and, of course, give hell a few more inmates.

She could sense his presence, but she hadn't known _the man_.

One hand shake was all it took – _one_ – and she realized exactly who he was.

She had almost thrown up, right then and there – the memory of it makes her want to throw up now and Jack Daniels doesn't help – and had to be excused.

She knows she'll never hear the end of it now, since what had been a trip to the bathroom ended up in a walk out the door.

She had refused to answer their calls but she did text her mother that she had to go home, emergency with one of her friends, and texted Jenny so that she would corroborate the story should her dad try to go all military on her again.

She's going for the third gulp when she sees _him_ – John – and it takes all of her strength to not throw the glass at him – at least, not till its empty.

She slams the glass down, some of it spilling out when she does, and she glares, "Did you know?"

He doesn't answer her, sitting behind the island in the kitchen, hands joined, lips hiding behind them, as his elbows remain propped up on the granite.

"John," her tongue is heavy, but she can still talk – and yell, if he tempts her. "Tell me."

His mouth begins to move, but his eyes remain calm, "I drove him mad – the man who wrote the prophecies. I whispered them in his ear, knowing full-well it would destroy his mind, his very essence. But, as I did, your God had a better plan. He created a tome, a book, that would write the prophecies as the events happened. Do you know what that means, Allison? It means that I could be wrong and that He will always be right."

"How the fuck does that answer my question?" She half-slurs, knowing that she's on her way to drunk, considering.

He smiles, softly, "It means that I do not know, Allison. The future I've seen has key players, yes, and events unfolding which cannot be avoided, but the details? I've lacked."

"I thought the devil was in the details." She narrows her eyes, as the sass he likes so much comes out.

He nods, still smiling, "That is true."

"Do you know what he wants with me?" Allison's heart drops – alcohol or not, the fear of that answer alone makes her want to drink straight from the bottle, convincing her she is _not_ drunk enough for this.

John doesn't not look fearful – not at all – but his face is no longer smiling, stone-like, as he tries to hide whatever it is she's searching for: the truth.

"What did you see, Allison?"

She scoffs, "Oh, so you knew I'd see something." She pours herself more to drink, even though her cup is nowhere near empty.

"I had my suspicions," he raises his brow as he watches her drink two gulps.

She fights to breathe, wiping the back of her mouth, because _that_ burned – both his answer and the drinking.

"I saw **him**. I saw the book. I saw him as he is and what he'll be. I also saw him **taking** me. He wants me. He needs me. I'm part of some sick sacrifice 'cause I'm a nephilim. Apparently, that's why I've been reborn, because I'm not angel, I'm not human, but I'm both, and he **needs** me – needs my soul. And if **he** needs me, **you** need me, 'cause he can give you what you want, through me, and my fucking human family."

She's too drunk, too loose, and so is her hand, as the cup just slips and falls – glass shattering just a foot away from her.

She looks at the floor, frowning at the glass, the mess and the loss of alcohol. When she looks up, he's right there, staring her down like he...like he's the one that wants her.

"I need you to listen to me very carefully, Allison." She already is, she thinks, but she holds his gaze, swallowing. "He will not have you."

"W-what?" She doesn't know if it's the alcohol or if it's just the fact that everything that is going on – and has been going on – has finally led to her losing her mind. "What about Armageddon? The end of the world? The war you've been waiting for?"

He smiles, smug, "There will always be another war. I shall think of this as a holiday."

She shakes her head, "You're lying. You're just trying-"

He takes her chin in his hand and she thinks he's going to kiss her again – almost wants him to. "Trust me, Allison."

She scoffs, weakly, "The devil wants me to trust him?" She begins to, once she realizes he's not flinching, "Why?"

"Because there is something that interests me more than Armageddon, at the moment."

She swallows, "Me?"

The corner of his lip turns, "No." Her heart falls and she's about to shove his hand off, to walk – crawl? – away from him, when he puts his other hand behind her neck, "Life."

And with that, they're kissing again, and he picks her up, sets her on the counter and leaves her breathless, finally breaking free to kiss her neck and grip her thighs as if he was trying to tear through her very flesh.

She tries not to moan – remembering how he disappeared the last time – but he's making no indication to move or leave.

His hands make their way under her dress and she's biting her lip, trying very hard not to make a sound, but he's found his way to her underwear and he's tugging it off. His lips cover her breasts now and it's easy to tease her nipples through the fabric of her bra. His fingers start working around her labia, rubbing over her clit in circles, as his other hand has now broken one of her breasts free.

She grabs his face, moans into his mouth, and holds on to him as best she can – making his movements a little difficult, but not impossible – as an attempt for him not to disappear, not this time.

He must've sensed her desperation – her need – because, almost immediately, he presses his body against her, as much as the counter will allow, and they're at a perfect angle, she realizes, as his sex presses against her, the fabric of his pants reminding her of how constricting clothes can be.

"Allison," he breathes, pressing his forehead against hers.

"Don't you dare, John. Do not dare."

"I'm not John," he reminds her, eyes open, and she meets his eyes, sensing his stare on her. "You know what I am."

She sighs, a shudder rippling through her, "I know."

"Then you must know what I cannot be...and what I must be."

She frowns, studying him for a second too long, before kissing his lips tenderly. He looks at her, slight surprise in his eyes, as she smiles, "I know what you choose to be, John, and what I choose to do for you...and everything I won't."

He smiles, finally, "Good enough."

And the kissing resumes as if it had never stopped at all.

Her hands find her way to his pants and starts unbuckling, receiving very little assistance from him, as his hands are busy trying to undress her and failing because her hands won't do what he wants.

He's stuck with keeping her dress around her waist, for now, her breasts exposed, as his cock is free to be gazed upon and he frees himself of his cloak, letting it drop on the floor.

They stare each other for a minute – one made of hell, literally, and the other of a place not unlike heaven; not quite an angel, not quite human, but the best of both.

She pulls off the dress, finally, and he sheds his blouse, studying her all the while, waiting for her to stop him, to speak sense, to speak anything, but neither of them do.

The kissing is slower now, patient and thorough. He studies her mouth as he studies every inch of her skin, leaving trails of fire in every corner. She can feel his cock pressing against her – begging for entrance. She moves her hand, ready to guide him, but he stops her wrist, making her gasp.

He meets her eyes, "Do you trust me?"

Allison thinks of her answer, licking her lips, "No."

He smiles and, if there were ever a smile to define the devil himself, it would've been that one, "Good girl."

He guides his own cock inside of her and thrusts as far as it will go – too far – making her scream with all there is. She clings to him, as soon as she has the opportunity, recovering from the surprise. Her nails are digging into his back, her mouth on his shoulder trying to muffle the cries and the position makes his thrusts slow, but he keeps them hard, having a bit of a difficulty with the angle she's allowing.

He's not even fully in – can't, with her on the counter – and yet he fills her, making the pleasure explode through every pore.

Finally, her body eases and welcomes him, wants and needs, so she leans back, her head on a cabinet door, allowing him better access. He tends to her breasts as he thrusts and she gasps, encourages him, marks him in anyway she can and, when she begs for more, he gives.

He pounds into her and her eyes are rolling to the back of her head because it's too much – perfect agony – and she can smell fire, smell the brimstone, all that is hell and, yet, she feels so close to heaven, so close to perfection, that she cannot stop.

When she feels his finger on her clit again – one single stroke – she feels it, the wave of pleasure, hitting her again and again because he doesn't stop. The thrusts continue and the flicks are quicker, letting her ride it through with him, until he finds his release.

She slumps against him and feels him chuckle underneath her.

He picks her up in his arms and the next thing she remembers is him setting her down on somewhere soft but, after that, everything goes dark.


	5. Chapter 4 Lost in the Fear

**Content Warning: **Another chapter that lives up to the "M" rating...seems these two can't get enough of each other? Errr, sort of/kind of/not really.

* * *

"I really thought I was okay" (Over and Over - Rachael Yamagata)

* * *

**Chapter 4. Lost in the Fear**

* * *

When Allison opens her eyes, it feels instantaneous – like she only blinked instead of slept – even though her body tells her much more had gone on before she had fallen asleep.

She grabs a fistful of her bedsheets as memories from last night flash before her eyes – seeing that man around her family, seeing his plans, seeing her own end, and then finding a release in the devil's arms.

It's that what forces her to move, to crawl out of bed and empty the contents of her already empty stomach into the toilet.

She coughs, feeling her eyes water from the vomiting – or maybe she's really crying – and sits back on the floor, her back against the wall.

She groans, her head pounding.

She never deluded herself into thinking this reincarnation was really a second chance at life – she _knows_ better – but never had she thought it would lead her to _this_.

She figured it would be God's silent way of asking her to do something else for Him – last time, she died for a book – for the faith that she was doing the right thing. Now, what would she die for?

_John._

The memory of it hits her like a tidal wave.

He kissed her, he fucked her – made love? – on her kitchen counter, then again on her bed, then a last time on the floor.

And didn't he say he would help stop it? Whatever _it_ was?

She remembers John keeping the book from the other angels knowing full-well that they had every intention of robbing him of an Apocalypse and focus on creating an open war in heaven.

But, as the world ends, so does his sentence in hell.

At least, that's what Allison has figured.

The end of the world means the end of all life. Some people would go to heaven, some to hell, but in truth, what use would be hell if there is no more membership to look forward to? It seemed like a ludicrous thought, once, but she had been the guardian of the book and she just _knew_ that the end of the world also meant a clean slate...but how clean?

And does John know?

She hadn't lied when she said she didn't trust him – part of her still doesn't – and she has kept secrets from him just as he's keeping them from her. She just knows he is.

"What are your thoughts?"

She hears his voice but doesn't look at the doorway nor does she try to cover herself.

Her chest rises as she takes a breath, clearing her throat, "Maybe we should let him win. Let the world end."

"Is that what you want?"

She shakes her head, feeling the urge to cry again but she holds it in, biting her lip. He crouches next to her until they're both at eye level and she hates how he looks – damned perfect for a fallen angel – and how, if it weren't for the ache between her legs, she wouldn't think they really had sex.

His eyes betray no emotion.

"Should the world end on his terms, Allison, I can assure you, the world will not end like you believe it will."

"How do you know what I believe?" She challenges, narrowing her eyes, refusing to let what happened between them soften her resolve on where she stands with anything.

He grins, slightly, "I know you. I know your prayers. I've listened to them intently. And your sacrifice, should you choose to make it, should not be for him."

She swallows, her voice a mere whisper now, "Who should it be for, then? You?"

He surprises her by pulling her arm and putting around his neck, lifting her off the floor and moving her to stand in front of the vanity, her back to his chest, holding her chin in his hand until she's looking at her reflection. Bloodshot eyes are looking back at her, pale skin, tussled hair and slight bags under her eyes. However, the way John holds her – her chin in his hand, his other hand pressed over her stomach – against his chest makes her feel like she's some kind of doll – _his_ doll.

She doesn't know if she likes that.

"Self-sacrificing monkeys are not rare in your kind. To be fair, many make sacrifices in their lives, but few make it for the right reasons," his voice tickles the back of her ear so that she finds her body wanting him again. "If you are to make that choice, Allison, do it for a beginning, not an end."

"John...do you...is this you caring?" She's trying not to sound shocked – scared – but the confusion is too obvious to hide. "I can't take this," she shakes his hand off her chin, closes her eyes and grips the edges of the vanity. She groans, "I can take the world ending, angels trying to kill me, the anti-Christ trying to **fuck** me, but you...caring about me? I don't-"

"Don't flatter yourself," he moves back, his face blank, "you've merely been an interesting distraction and one I owe a debt to. I've lived a very long life, Allison, and seen a great many things. Very few manage to distract me."

Her heart twists and she opens her eyes, focusing on him. She might be unable to read him but she _knows_ him – somehow, she's known him all her life, from the moment her parents died.

"The devil owes a debt to a monkey? That's touching," she tries to be sarcastic, to _pretend_, but so far, she's failing.

He merely shrugs, arms crossed, "You died fulfilling a purpose, one that met my interests. I am willing to consider assisting you, seeing that it possibly fulfills another interest for me."

"Life?" On his blank stare, she adds, "That's what you said last night. That's what interests you now. Life. Question is, what life? Last time I checked, hell was still a fiery pit of flames, so I can't see much of a life there."

Neither of them talk for a moment and there it is, the line they've already crossed but, somehow, managed to stand on the opposite side of this morning.

John doesn't answer her, but he moves towards her, his hands on her hips and she stills, not moving away. He presses his nose against the nape of her neck and she closes her eyes in reaction to the intimate touch. When she feels his hand cupping her, touching her arousal and bringing forth a moan from her lips, that's when she knows she's screwed – _damned_ – and all the confidence and resolve she had walked this second life with just took a timeout, until further notice.

"It seems your body agrees with my interests," he murmurs against her shoulder and she feels the length of him on her backside, ready. She pushes herself against it, the back of her head resting on his shoulder as he nips her neck.

"John," she moans, raspy, "If you're just messing with me...I will kill you."

"I'd like that," he whispers into her ear before he pushes her body down, on the vanity, and thrusts himself until he's buried deep within and she's tasting the end of a scream.

His pace is angry, resolved, and meets her core repeatedly, almost forcing her head to meet the mirror, but as she looks at their reflection, she sees something on his face she would've never seen otherwise.

He's losing himself in her.

His eyes aren't empty, emotionless or hardened with a goal only to meet a devil's end.

Now, like this, he is an angel – a man – perhaps the same angel who had been the first to feel pride, jealousy and vanity, and challenged God with it. The same angel that fell, into the depths of the earth, having no release or light to call his own other than the sins with which he fell.

Now, Allison is his release, his light, his connection to the past – to God, maybe?

She doesn't know what's worse – the fact that it scares her as much as everything else going on in her life, or the fact that out of all of it, this is the one she knows might kill her first.

But she doesn't stop – can't – and finds she doesn't want to.

And when he finds his release, she finds her own, calling his name, his _real_ name, and that's when she knows she's lost.

She _is_ lost.


	6. Chapter 5 A Battle Lost

"But I doubt if I'll ever talk to you after now" (Horizon - Rachael Yamagata)

* * *

**Chapter 5. A Battle Lost**

* * *

"Hope, dear, are you sure you're all right?"

It's the fourth time she's had to come home for her mother's afternoon tea because she had no other excuse to stay away.

There's so many papers to grade, so many school events and projects to hide behind. Heck, she's even adopted her mother's gift of volunteering for some of the local charities and helping wherever they might need her – her father being a politician, hers is a face that's always wanted for those kind of things.

But that's just the mask she wears – the face of Hope – but she knows who she is and who she isn't.

It's hard to forget when the anti-Christ is best friends with your dad, scheming something with his career, trying to find his way to Hope, but he can't. He might have her father, but he can't have her – not with John lying close to her on most nights. The fact that her father has been pissed at her doesn't help his attempts to lure her in. Her father didn't really believe her story after she walked out and her constant attempts to keep busy almost seems like an insult to him.

Pride. Definitely his sin of choice.

"Hope?"

She blinks, pulling away from her thoughts, and she just nods before nibbling on a cookie from the tray between them.

"I'm fine, mom. Just tired." It's not a lie.

"I've seen your itinerary. You've become quite the saint lately." Allison tries not to choke on her next bite when she hears that and simply clears her throat. "I'm sure your father is grateful."

_I'm sure he is_, she thinks to herself.

While Allison bears them no ill-will and, in some way, cannot deny them as her family, she has to admit her father is not someone she feels...bound to. Her mother is kind and, clearly, regal, without the title. Her father is ambitious, rude and a little cruel. She often wondered how they fell in love – though, she imagines he wooed her and fooled her into thinking he loved her, like most men do, pretending to be a better version of themselves until they win the game.

She shudders as that reminds her of the fate that awaits her with John if she's not careful.

Her mother's about to talk again when the door is pushed – thrown – open, meeting the wall, and both women jump.

Allison sees him – her father – holding a large yellow envelope and, from the looks of it, she doesn't think it's a letter inviting him to the White House.

"Donald," her mother moves to stand, waiting for an explanation, but he holds up his hand, his order silent but clear and she stays seated.

He then directs his eyes at Allison and she takes a deep breath.

She can't think of a thing that she's done – well, other than avoid the hell out of the good old 'Mykael', whom she tried to warn her father about but there's not much one can warn of when she has no proof that the man in question is worse than the devil himself. Maybe.

He moves to stand between them, in front of the coffee table, and pulls out some papers from the envelope. It's only when he throws them and spreads them over the table that she realizes what they are.

"Oh my God." Her mother breathes and Allison wants to correct her – to say, "_John, not God, trust me, I know the difference_," but she's too busy turning pale white as she sees evidence of her acts with John.

Pictures of sex with him in her room. Sex with him in a _classroom_ – in her defense, it was after a parent-teacher meeting and it was well after business hours. Sex with him in the bathroom of a restaurant. And, well, sex in various other places.

"How," she can barely get another syllable out, "Who?"

Her father is fuming, "Mykael managed to intercept a man's attempt at blackmail. He's also managed to destroy the evidence and deal with the culprit himself."

That hits her like a load of bricks.

_Oh._

"He has, has he?" She feels her temper rising, the one she _thinks_ she's inherited from him – reincarnation or not, her DNA mapping still belongs to them. She stands, hands on her hips, "And did you meet whoever took them? Or are you just trusting his word on everything?"

"So you admit to this behavior? Hope, how could you!? Have you no dignity?! No care of how this might affect us!? And who is this man? What kind of monster would turn you into a whore!?"

She doesn't know how – when or why – but her hand rises and makes a sound that breaks the air just as it meets his cheek. Her mother yelps – screams – and covers her mouth to keep from making any other sounds.

Allison squares her shoulders, mind reeling, "You shouldn't call him a monster, not when you're so close to becoming one yourself." She grabs her purse, taking advantage of the fact that her father is in shock and that should allow her enough time to run. "And, by the way, the reason Mykael showed you these is probably because he took them. He wants me, to himself, as a way to marry into our family. And that man you consider a monster is someone I've known for a very long time and even though he's got his own issues, I trust him. Mykael's been putting a wedge between all of us since he got here and if you're going to trust him over me, accuse me of being a whore while he's the exalted son you never had then, by all means, father, disown me and put him in my place. I don't want anything to do with you. Not if this is what you are – what you care about most. Goodbye, mother."

She doesn't close the door when she leaves – doesn't bother – but stops at the hallway, trying to hold back the tears.

When she exits the building, she calls for a cab, and then sees Myikael across the street, smiling.

While it's not the most mature thing she's capable of, she flips him off before getting inside the taxi and huffs, considering her next step.

She can't go back to her apartment – her parents pay for it. After she got her job as a teacher, she wanted to do it herself, but they never let her. She had asked for so little of them throughout her life, her mother pushed for this one thing.

Now, she'd have to disconnect herself from them – it's the one move _he_ isn't counting on, the only one she can do, for now.

She knows Mykael wants a way in with her family and he's obviously got it now but, without her in the equation, he can't have everything.

She feels the battle has been lost, on both sides, but at least the war isn't over yet.

It's time to regroup.


	7. Chapter 6 Not Quite as Foolish

"The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist." (The Usual Suspects, 1995)

* * *

**Chapter 6. Not Quite as Foolish**

* * *

When Allison wakes up in the middle of the night with her arm draped over his chest and her leg locked between both of his, she's not surprised – it's not yet morning, which is often his cue to leave, before she wakes up, but at least he's not quick to run away after the act.

He stays, at least in the dark.

Months of this has almost made it feel _normal_ for her to the point where she can almost make herself believe – _almost_ – that they _are_ normal.

That she's just another woman – completely human – and he's just another guy.

And that's probably what they look like to any outside surveyor – if Mykael has anyone taking any more pictures, for example – but they're not.

She's a nephilim and he's the devil.

She's supposed to be one of the many pieces used to bring forth Armageddon so that the world can end – be cleansed – and the war between angels will end as humans are welcomed into the arms of God. The devil is supposed to want that, too – as he'll have his own recruits to welcome – but he's not.

He's lying with her, letting her sleep in his arms before he disappears as he always does, and she can't force herself to think of him in any ill way.

Right now, he's just a man – he's sure acting like one – and it scares her because she knows he's not.

He can't be.

Can he?

"Allison, your emotions are awfully loud. Is it not a little late for such thinking?"

She looks up, her face still on his shoulder, and she can't see if his eyes are open but he's not trying to meet her eyes. She sucks in her lower lip, thankful that she knows he won't try to read her mind – what he'll find, she knows, will scare as much sense into him as it does her.

"What will he do now?"

He shifts, causing her to move off him, as he moves his head off the pillow and sits up, against the headboard, but keeps his arms open for her to nestle herself between his arm and his ribs.

Surprisingly, she does, and he brushes his fingers through her hair – is she his pet? A momentary, living entertainment?

"He will try to find another nephilim." He pauses, "Angels do not normally breed with humans, not unless specifically chosen for some higher purpose, but it is not unheard of."

"Is it easy to find one?" When he lets his hand fall at his side, she reaches over to take it and intertwines their fingers together – the fact that he lets her _is_ a surprise.

"You do bear a supernatural mark. I found two others before I found you," she looks up and sees him looking down on her, smiling deviously and it makes her wonder if he did something to those other two nephilims. He is, after all, the devil.

She shouldn't forget that.

"Did you warn them?"

He quirks a brow, his face already telling her what he thinks of such an "unnecessary" act. "They are not my responsibility, Allison. Their fates are their own."

She sits up away from him, aware that his gaze fell to her exposed chest as soon as she moved, "Just like mine was? Why help me if you're not helping them?"

His gaze is hard, the mood between them suddenly serious and tense – they've had arguments like these before.

"Your fate is your own. You chose to deny him. You chose to estrange your father to avoid him. You chose. I don't see how that implies I am helping you." Something in his face tenses – it makes her feel like they're something he's _not_ telling her.

"You're encouraging me." For some reason, her mind flashes back to how _encouraging_ John can be.

He smiles, probably thinking the same thing she is, "Influence does not rob you of free will, Allison. You can still say no."

She sighs, frowning. She never wins these arguments with him. "Can they?"

He nods, "Many have denied our influence. Mykael may have been chosen to lead us into the next Apocalypse, but I am sure your bible explains how the choice to follow him is merely that, a choice."

Her eyebrows furrow but she doesn't say anything – doesn't _want_ to debate theology with him – but he reads it off her like he reads everything else.

He quirks a brow, waiting.

"I used to think...that you," she corrects herself, "that devil wanted people making that choice. To get more recruits."

"I have many souls walking towards my doorstep, Mykael's included." That surprises her, slightly. "I will not miss having a few nephilim's missing from the list. Most of you are far more trouble than you're worth," the way he wrinkles his nose makes him wonder if he's already experienced having a nephilim or two under his roof – and the fact that they're discussing this as if they were just sharing views on the latest Stephen King novel makes her want to question the sense in their situation.

"Will his soul belong to you?"

His smile widens – terrifying her.

"Oh, yes."

She swallows, "Will mine?"

Off his quirked brow, "Are you offering?"

She shakes her head, without thought, and stammers, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"No one wants to go to hell, Allison. Not even for feelings they think they might have." His hand reaches out to her face and he moves closer, supporting his weight on his elbow as she looks down on him, eyes lingering on his lips. "And those that do are fools. You may be many things, but you are not quite as foolish as some would think."

She smiles tiredly, resigned in her admission, "I've turned my back on the voices, on what the book stood for, on the family I have here, all so that I can live an imaginary life pretending I'm just like everyone else and that the man I go to sleep with every night is just as normal as I am. You really think that isn't foolish?"

"I said you're not quite as foolish as some may think," he reminds her, "but you're still a fool." He pulls her down until their lips are _almost_ meeting and their eyes are narrowed, ready, but still gazing into each other – the proximity of it all unnerves her. "In this instance, you are my fool."

And it's the first time he's ever used the pronoun – the first time he's ever referred to her with anything resembling an endearment or indicating he has any feelings for her other than the carnal satisfaction of claiming her.

Before she can respond to it – before she can force her brain to compute long enough to form a response – he's kissing her, devouring her, pulling her into his arms and her body is ready – this reincarnation had been made for him, she thinks – and she lets him kiss her until the rest of her body is begging to be claimed.

She is his, she knows, and again forgets who it is she just surrendered to – and what he is.


	8. Chapter 7 To Be Understood

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it." (To Kill A Mocking Bird, 1962)

* * *

**Chapter 7. To Be Understood**

* * *

Allison hasn't seen John for days – he did say he had something he needed to tend to and, afraid of what the "something" was, she did not ask, knowing that whatever answer he would give would probably remind her of who she has chosen to sleep with.

In his absence, she goes to church and feels like a hypocrite of the worst kind.

* * *

She's made amends with her mother who is considering divorcing her father as he's become someone she can no longer be around let alone love. Allison feels guilty for that, somewhat, but knowing what she knows and how easily her father accepted Mykael's influence, she decides it might be for the best.

* * *

She hasn't heard of Mykael or even seen him.

The election is coming close and Allison has decided, on principle, to not vote for the man her father is running _with_. Whatever Mykael's planning, it needs her father as vice-president.

She's not going to help that cause.

She knows one vote may be too small to make a difference but she hopes – just like her church visits – that every little thing may count.

* * *

She knows there's something else she can do.

She's reminded of it when she takes a book to bed and reads "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.

She knows the poet didn't consider the road to hell, Armageddon or the liberation of souls of any kind, but that's what she's thinking of.

Mykael is supposed to succeed in whatever he's plotting.

The world – _correction_, civilization itself – is supposed to end, to be _cleansed_, for a purpose she's not meant to understand or decipher.

She's supposed to accept it, to be a part of it and to carry it out, on _faith_, but she's scared.

She gave up a life in the name of faith and, with this second life, she's holding on to it, _clinging_ on in the hopes that, maybe, just maybe, being selfish is okay as long as you have someone to be selfish _with_.

In her first life, she didn't have anyone, not really. Her family didn't understand her – often encouraging her to take her medication without wanting to understand what the voices were or what they represented – and she barely understood herself, until she found a purpose, something to die for.

Now? She thinks...she _feels_ she has something to live for.

* * *

She wakes up in the middle of the night to his lips on her shoulder, his chest on her back, and she immediately turns, eyes still closed, nestling her face in his chest, letting him hold her in his arms.

And she's lost, she knows. Damned, even.

But she refuses to let anyone judge her – not that anyone could, considering that no one knows.

No one will ever know what it was like living the life of a schizophrenic and staring at hell in the face. They won't know what it was like to run, to feel death's breath, to hide, to fight, for _faith_.

The truth is, she isn't being judged by anyone but herself and her biggest fear is, one day, she will be judged by Him.

Will _He_ understand?


	9. Chapter 8 Unable to Change

**Content Warning: **Light "M" content at the end, but thought I'd give the heads-up regardless.

* * *

"I don't see how I can live this way." (God Help Me, Emilie Autumn)

* * *

**Chapter 8. Unable to Change**

* * *

When the bell rings, Allison doesn't spend another second organizing the papers on her desk and she limits the time at the office, only saying quick farewells.

Her father had had the _audacity_ of trying to see her and, while she thought he'd done it in order to apologize, he'd wanted only to ask about her mother, to ask if Allison could somehow convince her to come back and then let it slip there was a charity event coming up and family values are important.

She had almost snapped, if it hadn't been for the knowledge that she'd been standing outside her classroom, kids inside, and the last thing she wanted was them hearing her say distasteful things.

She simply turned around and closed the door on his face.

She doesn't understand how he's become _this_ – a man full of ambition with little to no care towards others. She sometimes thought to blame it on Mykael, but other times, she isn't sure.

Perhaps, he'd always been an ambitious man, and politics only shed light on those traits.

"Oh!" She bumps into someone while she turns at the bottom of the stairs, about to walk the path through the trees and benches, towards the parking lot. When she looks up, it's George, the third grade teacher, and he's holding on to her arms, smiling, saving her from falling back on the steps.

They laugh it off and she thanks him, about to walk around him, but when he calls her name, she stops, turning to face him.

They talk for a little bit – namely her plans for the weekend, which she tells him are non-existent. When he asks her out, it stumps her because, well, she did tell him she had no plans, but in reality, she doesn't have any plans because plans usually land on her in the form of _John_, but it's not like she can tell him that.

She turns him down as politely as possible, telling him she's not really doing anything, but how she promised a friend she would be available. It's not a lie, not really, and the fact that George smiles and accepts it stumps her.

The man must be the most kind, respectful and considerate individual she'd ever met.

She's so used to the curious, mocking and pushy kind – _John_ – that her face reflects surprise, even as she turns away, and then she notices one of her fourth graders sitting on a bench, waiting, with John sitting next to her.

The memory that flashes before her eyes is undesirable – a little girl dead, in the middle of the street, used as a message, a message from John.

The little girl stands from her bench once she spots a car – her father, from the looks of it – and John stays behind, smiling, watching her go.

Allison's holding her breath, waiting for something to crash against the car, for the girl to fall under a tire, _something_, but nothing does.

It's not until the father drives away with the little girl – safe – that she moves towards John.

"What're you doing here?" She looks around them. There's nothing out of the ordinary. No other angels she should worry about. Yet.

"Am I disturbing you, Allison?" He smiles, his eyes still on the children around them, "I assure you, it had not been my intention. I heard your father paid you a visit."

"Yes, and I told him to leave," she crosses her arms, not even bothering to ask how he heard about it.

"That's most unwise." He glances at her, eyebrow quirked, before looking onward. "It might have given you a chance to enter your father's world...sabotage, Allison, it might make what's coming easier."

"I thought you didn't want me anywhere near Mykael," she reminds him, voice low, because the last time they had this discussion, John had suddenly grown _feelings_. She still doesn't know _what_ kind of feelings, but she knows they're the reason he's been taking her to bed almost every night, telling her she doesn't have to be what she is, getting under her skin in a way that, sometimes, there are moments when her skin is not her own.

It's his.

"I'd rather you weren't," he rephrases, "however, if he is to lose, certain actions must be taken."

"I don't want to deal with this right now, John," she groans, brushing a hand through her hair before she puts her bag down next to the bench and simply takes a seat beside him.

They're both silent for a while, some of the kids wishing her a good weekend and most of the parents leaving with them are giving John odd looks.

"What were you thinking when you saw me with the girl?"

It takes Allison a second to figure out what he's talking about. When she does, she tenses, swallowing. "Maria. The little girl."

She looks at him from the corner of her eye – she'd always suspected he had something to do with it – and his smirk is unashamed.

"I see," he nods, "that girl has not been touched by me. Her father, however..." He tilts his head, smiling, "He's about to learn the pleasures of adultery come with a string of repercussions." His voice isn't judgmental nor does he sound critical of the man's actions. It's almost as if he's applauding it.

And the epiphany hits her so hard it _hurts_. They're sitting side-by-side, but they're still total opposites. He takes pleasure in sin, in pain, in _death_, and everything she stands for, all that she believes, is against everything he is.

She had thought him capable of change – hoped – but now?

"I can't do this," she murmurs, though her body is screaming it. She takes her bag and walks away without even looking back. When she gets in her car, she knows he's standing from the bench, watching her, but she won't make eye contact.

When she drives, her eyesight is blurred from the tears, as in her mind, she feels like she's standing at the edge of a cliff and under it is an abyss calling her name.

She can choose to fall, to Mykael, to the end of the world, to a place where civilization ends, where heaven opens to those who are welcomed by God and hell relishes in the fall of the damned.

Or she can stay, always on the edge, being held back by John and his desires, but unable to move away to anything resembling a life – one that belongs to her, fully and completely – because while he lies with her and lets her _live_, he's not letting her live.

Not really.

He beds her, he keeps her away from Mykael, but the reality of what's happening and what can happen is not going anywhere.

The routine of parking the car, of reaching her apartment, hanging her coat and putting her bag on the coffee table comes too naturally.

When she's standing in her room, in front of her vanity, she's not surprised by the hands that touch her shoulders nor the arms that wrap around her stomach, holding her to him.

She closes her eyes, wishing him away.

"I won't mention your father again, Allison."

She scoffs, opening her eyes as the tears escape anew. Smiling weakly, she turns, still in his hold, and something in his eyes affects her – they look tender, though they shouldn't be.

He shouldn't be.

"It's more than that, John."

"I did not harm that girl," he murmurs, his eyebrows furrowed.

"But, if you felt like it, if it met your interests, you would've done it, wouldn't you?" She buries her face in his chest, sighing because she _knows_ it's a rhetorical question.

"Perhaps," he doesn't lie and she's grateful – at least she can still count on him to tell the truth. "But millions of humans die every day, Allison. Millions. Do you truly believe I have a hand in all of their deaths?" He grabs her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I am what I am, but that does not make me responsible for every living being." His hold is starting to become a little too tight for her liking. "I welcome your demise, I need not cause it, not unless I'm on a special project."

"John, you're hurting me," she's trying to claw his hands off, but he's stronger. He pulls her face to his, just an inch apart.

His breath touches her, "Look at me, Allison."

"I am looking at you!" She has to say through gritted teeth, due to his hold, and her voice is shaken because she's never seen him like this. She's hitting him, but it's of little use. He has her pinned between the vanity and himself, and unless she tries to smash a perfume bottle over his head – which would probably only piss them both off – she doesn't have anything sharp and useful to work with.

And, truthfully, she doesn't _want_ to hurt him.

She blinks and when her eyes open, she gasps, holding her breath, as his eyes are now completely black.

"I take pleasure in the pain of every living being on this earth. Except yours." He tilts his head to the side, curiosity playing over his features. "I don't understand why. When I met you, you seemed so unimportant...and yet, when you called for me, I came. When you needed guidance, I gave you the necessary push. When you died, I..."

She's not fighting him anymore – she's too busy being in shock by his sudden sharing of information – and she watches as he closes his eyes, looking _almost_ pained, but once his eyes open, he's back to the same icy stare, the one she knows is capable of ruling hell, no longer black.

"Do not walk away from me again. Are we understood?"

She nods, painfully, trying to keep her breathing steady.

It's almost as if something else has opened between them – something neither of them expected – and he doesn't look happy about it, not with her or with himself.

When he lets go and takes a step back, she slumps against the vanity, a hand to her chest.

"You asshole," she breathes, rubbing her chin with one hand, and she's in the mind to punch him – part of her really wants to, while the other part wants to just stand and gawk at the fact that, in his own way, he's told her she's probably the only human he cares about.

He doesn't give her time to do either, as he pulls her to him and the kiss is so hungry, so immediate, it sends fire to every one of her nerve endings and that's all that's needed.

That night, he doesn't stop until she's unconscious and with her final orgasm, she lets his real name escape her lips.

The following morning, she cries into her pillow, anger coursing through her veins because she knows walking away from him is no longer an option – she's in too deep, her feelings are not her own, her skin is not her own and she's barely got a hold of her own mind.

But one day, she knows, she'll have to – she just _knows_ – and he won't be able to pull her back.

And that fact alone will kill them both.


	10. Chapter 9 A Question of Truth

"Answer me in one word." William Shakespeare, As You Like It, 3.2

* * *

**Chapter 9. A Question of Truth**

* * *

It's one of those bright Sunday mornings when she wakes up alone and decides it's _not_ such a bad thing – sometimes, she thinks it better that he never stays after.

She still goes to church – she finds, after a while, she has to, regardless of the hypocrisy – and she finds comfort in silent prayers, in the request for forgiveness, in the hope that she is doing His will, even if she's not quite sure of it herself.

If anything, she's doing _her_ will – fulfilling her own desires, carnal or otherwise – but part of her doesn't want to believe that giving herself to Mykael, in any way shape or form, could be anyone's will, especially not His.

* * *

She's sitting at the coffee shop just a few blocks from her apartment, stirring the coffee absently, her eyes buried in the book she's basing her thesis on – its pages old, worn and almost a dry, muddy color.

She's about to turn the page when something moves across from her and her eyes dart toward that general direction, curious, when her blood freezes for a second before she feels it rush to her face and _burn_.

"Mykael." She lets his name roll from her lips like an insult and it evokes a smile from him, which she doesn't return.

"Really, Hope, I still find your flawless pronunciation of my name truly erotic. Very few Americans do it as well as you," he motions to the waiter, who's busy enough but immediately sees Mykael and, as if under a spell, is already on her way. Allison closes her book, reaching for her bag on an empty chair next to her – the table has four – and when she makes her intention to stand and leave _plainly_ clear, his words stop her, "I'm here to talk about Lucifer."

If the waitress heard him say the name, she doesn't show any signs of it, accepting his order of black coffee right after the devil's name was uttered with little care.

Allison settles on the chair, leaning back, unsure if she should stay and hear what this man has to say or if she should just use reason and go – John can take care of himself, can't he?

His smile, however, doesn't do anything to dispel the knots in her stomach.

She stays.

"I see you've kept him...busy." She doesn't think to even dignify that with a reply; considering he has visual evidence of his statement, his words come to no surprise. "It's very...touching."

Her eyes narrow. He's mocking her. He looks like he wants to laugh at her, at them both, and something inside of her isn't taking that _well_.

"What do you want with him?" She cuts to the chase, not wanting to play these kind of games – with John at the center – with him, of all people.

"It's not what I want from him, dear one," the way his lip curls makes her want to throw up – the very essence of this man is malice; dark and filled with a stench that you can't pick up by ordinary means. "It's what you want from him." He leans forward, elbows on the table, but he has to pause when the waitress brings him his cup, saying thank you before he brings the cup to his lips – making Allison wait – before it touches its plate.

"Do you truly think you'll be enough for him? I mean, truly," he leans back, a soft chuckle shaking his chest, "did you think the world would end and, somehow, he would follow you to heaven? Don't you know what he is?"

Her heart drums against her chest and she wants to answer – she's going to – but he's quicker than her, or maybe she's not trying enough.

"Lets say you win and I fail. Lets say the world does not end, that I do not succeed in my plans to make earth my very own playground." Her eyes widen at that idea, "Do you think you and him have a life? A future? Perhaps children? I've always wanted a stepsister." A shudder ripples through Allison as she realizes his smile is more than just longing for a sibling – it's the wrong kind of longing.

"You're not J-" She almost says his name, but she knows Mykael won't recognize it – he'll probably mock John for it. "Lucifer is not your father."

"Not in the biblical sense," he uses the term mockingly, as if it were like burning pages from the Bible for fun. "But I was birthed by the very idea of him, his very essence. That fear that paralyzes you, the very thing that burns you and makes you want to run screaming from my presence, the very thing that you're burying deep inside as we speak...you're as attracted to me as you are to him."

Allison's throat is dry. She shakes her head. It's not true, she knows. Mykael disgusts her. Being around him makes every part of her body tense and she does not feel _right_. Then again, the first time she and John...she threw up the morning after. And John, even in the most pleasurable of moments, terrifies her.

"You won't have me." She tells this to herself more than she does him, her teeth grinding painfully.

"And why not? Because he does?" He takes another slow sip of his coffee before setting it down with a sigh, "Possession...it can be easily exorcised." He touches a finger to his lip, thoughtful, "Tell you what, answer me this, in one word, and perhaps I'll concede this battle. The battle," he emphasizes, "not the war."

She swallows, reminding herself about what they say about deals with devils and whatnot, but she gives him a slight nod regardless.

He smiles, "If Lucifer was man, just an ordinary man, with questionable moral values and lacking a compassionate heart, would you still be as drawn to him as you are now, when you know him as what he is? Would you want the man just as you want the soulless angel?"

She's about to argue that John is not a soulless being but even she isn't sure if she hasn't been seeing only what she _wants_ to see.

John is not _good_. He's not saving lives or trying to save the world because he's _good_. He's not bedding her and keeping her company because he's _good_. In fact, nothing that John has done points him as good and, yet, she believes...she hopes...that he can be.

She inhales, needing all she can to answer him one word, "Yes."

He quirks a brow, meeting the cup with his lips again, taking a longer sip as he takes the time to think his reply through. His is just as brief as hers, "Interesting."

And it's not until after he's gone, leaving behind a bill big enough to cover his bill and hers – and a generous tip for the waitress – that she realizes she hadn't been breathing right.

She replays his question in her head – albeit unwillingly – and recalls her answer.

Mykael had asked her to answer him in one word...but he didn't ask her to say the truth.

Semantics, but it still stood.

Not all questions are answered with a truth.


	11. Chapter 10 What's Done is Done

"Please, I know that we're different." (The Minnow & The Trout - A Fine Frenzy)

* * *

**Chapter 10. What's Done is Done**

* * *

She's walking towards her apartment – thinking she's gotten enough fresh air to last her the rest of the school week – and finds she can't get home fast enough.

Allison's mind is worse than a hive right now, in this moment, because everything feels heavy – like someone just dropped a piano on her and didn't stop there.

She's been trying to live her life pretending it belongs to her, but it doesn't, does it?

It never has.

First, it belonged to Simon, the angel who guided her – fathered her? – and led her to the book, to be its guardian, to keep the war from tipping over to the wrong side.

Now it belongs to John – she'd say Mykael, but free will is proving to be on her side on this case.

Mykael's impromptu appearance at the coffee shop unnerved her, sure, but his question made it worse.

Would she want John if he was just a man?

Is that even possible?

The question itself bothers her – not the lie she responded with – because the more she thinks about it, the more she feels...she just _feels_.

She feels too much.

When she opens the door to her apartment, she jumps when she sees John, wearing his usual coat, standing by the balcony doors, his eyes meeting hers as if he'd known she was about to walk in.

She hangs her coat on the rack nearby, breaking eye-contact, and locks the door before crossing her arms to face him.

"Hey." The last she saw of him was last night. John doesn't do mornings. He might show up after she's woken up, but she doesn't ever wake up to the sight of him.

She often wonders what the sun would look like reflected on his naked body.

"You are to change your itinerary, Allison, to become less predictable," his voice is authoritative, but his face betrays no other emotion and she's confused, the expression obvious on _her_ face.

She furrows her brow, "What're you talking about?"

"Your Sunday church visits. You stay for an hour, every Sunday, then you go to the coffee shop, but not before stopping by the window of the store with the porcelain dolls on the display. Then you walk through the park, for about half an hour, before you grab a bite to eat from a street vendor, then the library, then the apartment. Saturdays you-"

She interrupts him, holding her hand up, "I know what I do Saturdays, thank you, the question is, why do you? And why does it matter?"

"It matters," he ignores her initial question and begins his stride towards her which she responds to by letting her back meet the door. "Because Mykael knows it very well. The things he knows well, I know better."

Something in her chest _drops_ – everything suddenly clicks into place. "Is that what I am to you two? A competition?"

He quirks a brow, amused, "Is that what he told you?"

She hates how he often answers a question with another and, given her current emotional state, she's not going to stand for it.

Not now.

"What he told me isn't your business," she walks around him, careful not to bump shoulders with him – touching him, at this point, would obliterate some of her resistance. "I'm not your business. Or did you forget?" She turns, seeing that he's still facing the door, "You're not here to help me. Far as I can tell, you're still the devil, not my guardian angel. So what if I want to have tea with the anti-Christ? You can't tell me what to do and expect it not to mean anything!" Her mouth is running away with her, sense thrown out the door, but she's tired of this dance – of him – of arguing about what she needs to do, what she feels like doing, and how he'll influence her away from any of those choices and how she lets him.

_She_ lets him.

"You can't," she's breathing hard, like she's run a marathon – maybe she has. "You can't just come and go whenever you want, John. And maybe that's the problem," she shrugs, resigned. "You are who you are and...I don't want to be what I am anymore. Not unless it means something. And nothing does. If I'm just Allison," she scoffs, "or Hope. I have to make it mean something. You and me...whatever this is...it doesn't mean anything...not if you keep walking back and forth from what you are and whatever it is you're pretending to be."

He murmurs something too low for her to hear and she frowns, "What?"

"What if I wasn't who I am?" He turns and she's floored.

Mykael.

He asked her that same question.

How did he know?

Oh, he's devious. He's very, _very_ good, she thinks. Mykael planted the question and, somehow, she ignited the fire for John to ask it himself.

Absolutely _demonic_.

She swallows, wishing she could read _his_ mind, to see past the frozen lines on his face that reveal nothing – his eyes are dark pools she will never, ever read.

"You'll always be what you are, John...and I'll...I'll always be what I am." She whispers, knowing _he_ can hear, and she wishes she hadn't just condemned them both.

She tilts her head, observing him, waiting, because he's not talking.

It drives her to surrender, even if she'll hate herself for it later. "John...I'll stay away from him. I'll," she sighs, resigned, "I'll try to change things up. Maybe I'll start doing charities again. I'll try to keep it off the news."

"Good." He turns, his hand on the knob, and it hits her because he's not going to acknowledge the elephant in the room – her outburst, his question – so she has to.

"John," she takes a step forward and pauses, watches as he halts under the doorframe, "I...I didn't mean..."

"I make no apologies, Allison, I certainly do not seek nor need them. Don't trouble yourself with thoughts of regrets. What is done is done."

She watches him leave, confused as to what he's referring to – what just happened, or _everything_.

Somewhere inside of her, a bigger questions gnaws at her.

_What's done is done._

Are they done?


	12. Chapter 11 Dangerous Craving

"I'm not for you, you're not for me." (Misery Loves Company, Emilie Autumn)

* * *

**Chapter 11. Dangerous Craving**

* * *

John keeps his distance, but he still watches over her, occasionally.

He trusts no one else to do it – he made that mistake before, she died and then he lost his temper, subjecting many of his servants to a view he isn't accustomed to giving let alone performing.

Losing his temper over a mortal?

Hardly characteristic of the lord of hell.

Nevertheless, his interest in Allison doesn't waver, even though every part of him tells him he should walk away, completely, without looking back.

Being around Allison, it makes him question too many things – his own existence, for one – and worst of all, he had been _agreeing_ with her.

He doesn't make a habit of agreeing with anyone but himself – monkeys are hardly the compass of common sense – and he made his current career out of disagreeing with the All Mighty and yet, he had agreed with Allison's assessment of their...relationship.

He's been enjoying it, of course.

Her body, the scent of her, the fire in her eyes and the urgency behind them, he wanted to consume all of it, and so he did.

This reincarnation of her is still very much like her, except this time, she had been granted a strength that came from a somewhat happy childhood, a normal upbringing and a very different scenery.

But she is still so very Allison and yet, not quite the same.

Her faith, even when she herself contests her fate, is unwavering.

Her love for a family not even she feels bound to is still very much like her.

Her acceptance of _him_, in this life as much as the last, is still so very like her.

He had walked away from it once, he wouldn't do it a second time, and perhaps He knew that.

John wonders if Allison had been His carefully woven trap.

It hadn't been a very good one.

This trap had pushed him away with, surprisingly, a simple truth.

They could never be what they were trying to be – he's the devil, of course, and could not pretend otherwise. She's a nephalim still, but she could live her life as a human without little consequence.

He doesn't share that luxury.

* * *

When he doesn't watch over Allison, he keeps his eyes on her father, on Mykael, and those within their campaign.

He poses as one of them – not too close, away from Mykael's notice – and John tries to find ways to weaken their campaign, but Mykael has done a very good job at keeping the corruption under wraps.

John tries to do the same for their opponent, in the meanwhile, since they're both equally corrupt.

All politicians have a knack for it, he knows, and it's just a matter of who wears the lie well and who wields it better.

* * *

When he's not trying to pull strings with the monkeys, when he's not watching over her, when he simply is what he is, he takes pleasure in the pain he inflicts, in the screams of the damned, in the torture of those who have fallen before him.

He makes them see their fears come true within their minds, of having it all crawl under their skin, calling their name, tasting it on their lips, before they beg for death only to realize they _are_ dead and, somehow, still dying, under his careful care, because that's what he does.

He punishes.

He condemns.

He damns souls to spend eternity suffering – dying – to feel all the pain they've ever experienced, but stronger and, sometimes, he gets creative.

Sometimes, he creates _more_ – he craves it – until he feels like himself again and Allison's name is just a murmur in the wind.

There's no such wind in hell, so he's absent her name, granted a moment's peace without it.

When he resurfaces, however, the wind finds him, her name comes with it, and he realizes every pain he's ever inflicted is catching up with him through just that one name.

He had been wiser when he had avoided the possibility of having her – of claiming her – and now?

After having her, the craving is stronger, but he knows, somehow, it shall not be enough.

This time, she'll want more and he'll want to give it – but he can't.

He simply can't.


	13. Chapter 12 A Purpose to Fulfill

"Nothing worse than a monster who thinks he's right with God." (Mal, Ep. 13 - "Heart of Gold")

* * *

**Chapter 12. A Purpose to Fulfill**

* * *

Allison has too much on her mind – holidays are coming to a close and, right now, she's not looking forward to spending it with her parents.

They're not yet divorced, not officially, and are keeping up appearances for the sake of her father's political career, but they're certainly not on the best speaking terms.

At least that means she's been spending time with her mom and learning that the woman – when not being subservient to her father's whims – has a beautiful laugh, a kind demeanor and maybe even a hint of mischief.

Allison learned then, she may have gotten her father's temper, but she inherited her mother's spirit.

It's too bad her mother is recovering from an emotional battering and Allison's is, well, broken.

* * *

John hasn't shown his face for a week.

It's mid-October.

Holidays are around the corner – as are midterms – and she's not focusing properly.

She had thought that his departure – after the realization of it settled in – would make things easier; her transition from Allison to Hope, a chance to pretend that free will is an option and she could just try to move on from it.

She had been wrong.

She can't sleep and, for a recovering Schizophrenic – she doesn't think her reincarnation healed her from it, not really – sleep is very important.

That's when she feels it – a shift in the air – and she sees the outline of a shadow standing at the foot of her bed.

She immediately thinks it's John – who else – and sits up, reaching the lamp on the bedside table and when the light shows her it _isn't_ John, she's not scared or worried.

She's just disappointed.

"What do you want?"

The angel – she would expect nothing less – looks at her with a soft smile, but says nothing, his dark gray hair marking his age – could angels age?

"If you're here to kill me, take a number, please," she leans back on the bed, eyes on the ceiling. When the bed dips on John's side – what used to be his side – she turns her head, frowning as she meets the angel's eyes.

She can't make out the color, but they're dark and bright at the same time – it reminds her of how the ocean can be peaceful before a storm.

"You shouldn't ask for death, some might be inclined to give it," his voice is deep and soothing. She's not afraid of this man. She doesn't understand why.

"Simon?"

He chuckles, shaking his head, "You're not very good at guessing, are you? Gabriel told me how you thought he was me. Can't say he was amused by the comparison." He shrugs, still smiling, "I, for one, don't take much offense to such things."

She blinks.

Gabriel? She doesn't remember _ever_ meeting Gabriel. But she does remember meeting someone – an erased memory, forgotten and lost.

She hadn't thought of it till now.

"Michael?"

He gives a slight nod.

"I met you before." She says it out loud, tasting the truth in her mouth and sensing...something about it isn't right.

"I'm here with an offer." She quirks a brow, but doesn't stop him. "There is a man by the name of Joseph Mulligan. He works at a hotel, concierge. He has information that could affect your father's campaign."

That piques her interest.

"He has to share that information with the world. You cannot do it for him. You have only to encourage him."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

His smile is soft, patient, and she realizes he's talking to her like one would a child. "Go to him," he says simply, "tell him you know the truth. Tell him you know about the nights he spent in room 215, about the touches under the table, about the late night visits while the children were upstairs, asleep. Encourage him to reveal that truth but do so subtly. He's a gentle heart and an even gentler soul. The truth cannot be shaken so strongly from him."

And that makes her look away, her cheeks suddenly flushed, "Does that mean...you know about..."

His chuckle makes her look at him again, "I know many things, Allison. We see many things. Those who are still in God's grace are granted the sight of all his creatures – even those who have fallen."

"Including Mykael?" She mutters, her heart beating madly at the revelation that, yes, they know about her and John – but do they know about what she's turned her back on? Why aren't they trying to kill her because of it?

"Yes," he answers simply.

"Am I..." She swallows, wondering if she's ready for the answer, "Is he supposed to have me? Am I supposed to let him win?"

He stands from the bed, "Only you can answer that. It will all end someday; a month from now or in a thousand years. It makes no difference. The war amongst us, however, will end perhaps sooner than expected."

"Can I ask you something else?" She's not looking at him – for some reason, she thinks it'd be disrespectful. He's Michael. He's guiding her. He's giving her a purpose and she's probing him for questions. She needs to show him some kind of reverence. At least, she feels she should.

"You may."

"Before the pages of the book were scattered...your war...it was keeping souls from entering heaven but...when I died the first time, that stopped, didn't it?"

"For now, it has."

She lifts her head, meeting his eyes, if only to show him the relief on her face, but it doesn't last long as another question resurfaces.

"What is the war about now? If it's not about us..."

"It will always be about you, Allison," he interrupts, his patient smile still present. "There will always be angels that find you unworthy. Your souls may be welcome in heaven, but that does not mean they cannot find a way to keep them from entering. They've not given up...but simply changed tactics."

"How?"

"I think you know," he puts his hands in his pockets as he turns around. "Remember your conversation with him. He wants more than Armageddon now. He wants his own kingdom, one that rivals both Heaven and Hell. If he wins, what do you think will happen to you?"

She doesn't respond – she can't – as her mind is full of images.

Mykael wouldn't just lead the world to chaos – he would enslave it.

Stark had wanted to kill him and she had fought to stop him – she'd been wrong, horribly wrong.

Mykael would open the doors to pestilence, war, famine and death, but he wouldn't stop there. He would enslave everyone – every _soul_ – until heaven and hell had to bow down, to _fight_, to regain what is theirs.

But how could they fight against one, when they're not even on the same side?

Does John know?

Would he fight against Mykael, or _with_ him?

She throws the covers off her – not even bothering to notice that Michael is long gone – and makes a call.

She needs to find out who Joseph Mulligan is, where he works and how she can set up a meeting with him.

Her father cannot win.

Mykael cannot win.


	14. Chapter 13 Gravitation

**Content Warning: **The "M" rating makes an appearance here as well. Just a heads-up :-)

* * *

"Is there a chance you may change your mind? Or are we ashes and wine?" (Ashes And Wine - A Fine Frenzy)

* * *

**Chapter 13. Gravitation**

* * *

Allison steps out of the shower, drying her hair, when she thinks to turn on the television in her room for any news.

Normally, she ignores most of what's on TV and just listens to what is said on the radio or she'll check the newspaper, but right now, with elections and everything else that had been happening around her, she needs every source she can find.

She's almost done drying her hair, looking at the TV from where she's standing in the bathroom, when she sees the name of the man she had gone to visit yesterday.

She turns off the dryer and listens to the news, intently, watching as the truth hits her in the face in the worst possible way.

The hair dryer is quaking in her hand, her hand covering her mouth and her heart is drumming – _thudthudthudthudthud_ – without pause.

What has she done?

Joseph Mulligan, Michael had told her, would help affect her father's campaign.

She never did ask exactly _how_.

Her task had been simple: find the guy, tell him she knew the truth by telling him about certain key events that he would recognize, make him feel guilty about his secret and, hopefully, encourage him to tell the truth without forcing him to.

It had to be a subtle move.

And it had been.

She'd been _very_ good, actually, being genuinely empathic – she didn't have to know the guy's secret to know it hurt him, as secrets often do – and he had told her to go, to leave him alone.

When she turned on the news, she hadn't expected to see results so quickly, but she had.

And there he is, Joseph Mulligan, confessing to his sexual involvement with the man running for vice-president...her father's opponent.

This would strengthen her father's campaign, not weaken it.

Her knuckles are white and she's about to pierce her skin with her nails – to try, at least – when she feels his hands – she knows they're his – on her shoulders, moving her away from the electric appliance in her hand and onto his lap on the armchair.

She's not looking at him – she's not looking at anything – and he's shaking her, telling her something, but she can't make out the words.

There's ringing in her head.

She's been tricked, by an _archangel_ no less.

"Allison, breathe or I shall make you breathe," she hears him growl and she takes a large intake of breath, exhales, then inhales again – softer now – until her heart returns to a steady pace. He has one hand on the small of her back, the other on her knee, and he's watching her with genuine concern. Once she collects herself, the mask is on and his face is placid as he gazes at the television. Her eyes follow his own gaze and she feels like throwing up again.

"I did that," she whispers.

"I imagine you did not do it alone." He's fishing for information and, for the first time since they've known each other, she feels...ashamed.

She feels like she shouldn't tell him this – she doesn't want to seek his help if it means admitting this to him, but she has to.

If they can fix this somehow, she has to tell him.

"Michael," she looks down at the carpet, focusing on a spot, so she doesn't have to meet his eyes. "He told me if I told that man tell the truth, that...it would affect my father's campaign."

"He wasn't lying, clearly."

He doesn't sound angry so she braves meeting his gaze, brows furrowed, "But why? Why would an archangel help Mykael? I thought...I thought he was one of the good ones. I could feel he was."

So much for gut instincts.

John's hand reaches her face, cupping her cheek before letting his thumb trace the line of her lower lip. It makes her stomach twist as she suddenly remembers...she hasn't seen him in _weeks_ and now, they're here, so close, yet so far, and somehow acting as if the distance is only in their minds.

Technically, it is.

"Allegiances can change. In the course of war, they often do." The way he's gazing at her lips tells her he has no interest in discussing her current screw up, or Michael's betrayal, at all.

She forces herself to focus, "But that means I've helped him win. John, that means he's one step closer to ending the world, to me-"

"He isn't—"

"No, listen to me," she grabs his hand to pull it away from her face – from distracting her. "Michael told me something else." That catches his attention. "Mykael's not fighting for just souls. He's fighting for earth. He wants hell on earth, John. Mykael's not going to end civilization, he's going to trap it. This war won't be between heaven and hell, or angels against angels, but heaven, hell and earth. Everything will suffer. Everything and everyone. Even you."

She's not sure where the words are coming from – her heart is beating frantically again – but they spill out, like the song you heard when you were little but forgot the words to until you heard their familiar tune again, then the words come flooding in.

John's face has remained incredibly passive throughout.

"Michael tells you of an Armageddon that involves all three realms and a creature meaning to rule over all, and yet you find it in you to concern yourself not just for the angels or the humans, but for me as well." He smiles – the smile sends a shock through her that makes her grip on his hand loosen. "Allison, I am Lucifer. I am the damned. I am the fallen. I am the one who lurks in the darkness, shunned from the light, from His grace. I can assure you, whatever war Mykael has planned, I've faced worse. Heaven may quake against the blasphemy of his existence, but Hell merely laughs."

She frowns, unconvinced, "John. This isn't funny. You shouldn't be too sure of yourself. You may be the devil, but he's got angels on his side, angels that don't like you any more than they like me, and they'll find a way to make things as difficult for you as possible."

He grabs her face in both of his hands, silencing her effectively, his eyes probing into hers, unwavering.

"Then let them try. In fact, I look forward to a little challenge." The corner of his lip quirks, "I rather enjoy the idea, actually."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course you do."

He lets go of her face, his hands on her lap again and she doesn't know what to say now, or do, but she doesn't want to move away nor does she want to argue anymore.

He's not arguing, either, content with just watching her and it's a strange place from where they last were – with her asking for more, with him offering to give it, and her refusing what she had initially asked for, knowing better than to tempt the fate of the world – his existence – on something that just couldn't happen.

She clears her throat, trying to break the silence, "I'm surprised you came back."

It's not the most suitable of ice-breakers, she knows, and he's probably mocking her for it, internally.

"Would you rather I go?" The fact that he's half-smiling helps her not take him seriously and she quirks a brow, confused towards his sudden mood-change.

If he keeps this up, she's bound to get whiplash from all of it.

"John...where were you?"

The question obviously takes him by surprise and he looks like he's debating with himself whether he should answer – or maybe _what_ he should answer, since she knows with him, she'd never get the whole truth, but he won't lie to her, either.

"I've been keeping watch on Mykael, on your father. I've spoken to a few old...friends," that translates to either demons or angels – with him, it'd be a toss-up. "And caught up with a few things at work."

She swallows, realizing what _that_ means. "Sorry, I didn't realize being around me was making you neglect your duties." She turns away, while on his lap, her feet touching the ground and she puts her hands on either side of the armchair, ready to stand, but his arm holds her back to him, trapping her there. "John, what're you-" She freezes when she hears him _inhale_ the scent of her and then he pulls her hair off the back of her neck, his nose touching her skin.

"John..." She bites her lip, knowing she wants nothing more than to melt in his arms, but then they'd be right back where they started. "We're never going to resolve this between us, are we?"

"A little chaos is good for the soul," she can hear the smile in his words, "or so I'm told."

"John," she whispers when she feels his hands holding on to her hips, rocking her against him, letting her know how _much_ good chaos can be. She moans, keeping her hands on the armchair, digging her nails into the fabric as she starts to move out of her own volition. "What are you doing to me?"

"I thought it was quite obvious," he unties the knot on the robe, exposing her front, as he begins to massage her breasts, to tease her nipples between his fingers as he dips a finger into her folds, and she can barely form a coherent response.

"Umm, ah, that's not, mmm, what I meant, fuck!" She jumps when she feels him press on her already sensitive clit and she wants to hit him, fuck him or both.

"Well, then, what did you mean?" She can feel him pull up her robe, so that her sex is free to feel the hardness growing beneath her with only his pants separating them. She stops moving, leaning her back on his chest so she can turn to face him as much as she can and dig her fingers through his hair – she had missed this, missed _him_.

"I need to stop you, to stop this, before you take me down a path I'm not meant to go to." He's not moving, either, and he's not trying to silence her with any more attempts to drive her insane with lust. She goes on, "But whenever I try...whenever you touch me...I can't..." She rocks her hips against him, in the circular motion she knows he enjoys, and the fact that he closes his eyes and breathes, sharply, lets her know he missed it, too. "I can't stop."

"Then don't," he opens his eyes and presses her harder against him, his hold on her crushing her stomach, but when his lips take hers, she doesn't care about any bones he might break or any bruises he might leave, as long as he keeps kissing her. He's moving under her, trying to free himself – his cock, at least – from his pants enough so that he can do this – do _her_ – and after she assists him by lifting herself up just enough for him to accomplish the task, he positions himself and brings her down in one single motion.

The moan that escapes her throat is strangled, a broken scream, and she doesn't understand how that alone felt like she hadn't had him in months – years? – when it has hardly been that long.

He's breathing against her back, hard, mirroring her own need, perhaps? She starts to move, to take him in and out, letting him fill every space inside. He meets her half-way, thrusting his way up, keeping his hands on her hips to either direct or join her motions. She doesn't know who's leading, maybe they both are, but their movements are the perfect dance.

His hands find her clit again and she tries to stop him, to tear his hand away, but he starts thrusting into her so fast, her motor skills are thrown out the window and she's left with the thought of hanging on as he brings her to orgasm, his name leaving her mouth, and when she sags against him, he stands – forcing her to stand – and picks her up – since she can barely walk – to lie her down on the bed.

She gazes at him lazily, watches as he strips, his eyes never leaving hers. When he's naked, she's ready, legs parted wide, and his hardness is pressed against her entrance again, invading her slowly this time.

She opens her eyes and he's _watching_ her in a way she doesn't think he ever has.

John has always been a mystery – she doesn't know if she's just a want for him or a need, but right then, in his gaze, she almost feels like a need.

He lowers his lips to hers, the kiss telling her more than she can decipher – he is, quite literally, speaking in tongues – and though she follows each stroke of his tongue, each graze of his teeth, she doesn't know if what he's saying is a greeting or a farewell.

The sex is slow, too, which is uncharacteristic of him, and the heel of her feet are pressed against his backside, urging him deeper, faster, but he's taking his time, and between the kisses and she finds that she's building up another orgasm.

She starts to whimper into his mouth and his pace changes, quickens, and he's had to break the kiss, to focus on the sensitive flesh just between her shoulder and neck, and she scratches at his back like a cat, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts so that she can feel him rubbing against her...there!

She rides out the wave, but he doesn't give her time to recover, as he turns them, pulling her on top, and before she can muster the strength to ride him – she won't stop until he's satisfied, not that he'd let her – he sits up and she can feels his thighs behind her back.

With one arm around her waist and his other hand behind him, on the bed, he fucks her – deliciously – and she is screaming this time, she's sure of it, and in the midst of it, she swears he orders her to look at him.

She does and he looks positively primal.

She's in throes of ecstasy and yet she's terrified – of what he's making her feel, of what she might be turning him into, of what it'll all mean and whether they'll be able to stop, even if they needed to.

She's panting, she knows, and it should embarrass her, but it doesn't, not when he's looking at her like he's enjoying every single second of it – of her – as he buries himself deeper and deeper, until she swears his cock is growing inside of her because she can feel it _everywhere_.

When he comes, he pulls her down, his seed spilling over them both, and her orgasm ignites soon after, the spasm making her rock against him until they're _both_ done.

She falls against his chest and says something that she shouldn't have said – something that he, hopefully, doesn't hear – because even though she had been fucked senseless, even she should've had more sense than to go and say something like that.


	15. Chapter 14 A Day for Miracles

"Life sometimes takes you places you weren't expectin' to go." (Doralee, Ep. 05 - "Safe")

* * *

**Chapter 14. A Day for Miracles**

* * *

When Allison wakes up, she doesn't want to open her eyes – not yet – because, other than her body feeling completely sore, she can feel something _else_, something about to give her a whole new series of panic attacks.

His arm his around her waist, pulling her to him, his other arm thrown just above her head, holding her hand, while his other hand is over her stomach, touching her hand there.

He's holding onto her in a very _intimate way_, one she had never been privy to before, and it's still daylight – so much for going out – and he's still there.

After sex, the sun still out, and he hasn't disappeared.

When she feels him nuzzle her neck, her eyes flash open and her grip on his hands tighten without thought, as she gets over the surprise of feeling him that close and, well, feeling _that_ as well.

"Allison?"

"Hmm?" She doesn't want to turn around, doesn't want to show him that she's blushing like crazy, not until she manages to keep her heart rate at a normal pace.

He begins to circle a thumb over the back of her hand and they stay like that for a while, just breathing in the silence, and her heart rate still hasn't changed.

He chuckles behind her, "To think, when I met you, I thought of you as just another monkey with angelic parentage."

"And now?" She swallows, her voice low.

"You're still very much that, but not quite as ordinary..not to me. You're quite resilient. But more than that..." His lips touch her shoulder for a moment before continuing, "Many worship me, lust for me, the symbol of what they believe I am...and yet...when you see me, you seek a soul that is not there. You believe in the angel I once was."

"Someone has to," she whispers, half-smiling, half-frowning, as she gives into his strange affection and starts caressing the arm over her stomach.

"You don't have to, Allison. You choose to. A foolish choice, driven by no other reason than blind faith, but...the truly amazing thing is...you're the first to blindly believe in me as something I'm not. Faith is something devoted to God, not the devil, not as I am, not as what I once was."

She can't stop herself. This time, she turns, and the sight of him, naked, basking in the sunlight coming through the window behind him takes her breath away.

How can he see himself as anything other than an angel?

She can't imagine it.

Not now.

"I do have faith in you, John," she bites her lip, reaching to cup his cheek in her hand, "Lucifer." It's the first time she says his name outside of throes of ecstasy, his real name, and he closes his eyes in response, moving his face to kiss her open palm. "You scare me. I fear for you. But part of me believes...you're every bit the monster you want to be, but you never stopped being the angel that fell. You're everything you choose, and everything you ignore."

He laughs into her hand, soft chuckles rumbling over him, as he turns his face to meet her eyes, pulling her hand away from his face, clasping it in his.

"Such a curious thing, to believe so much yet know so little."

She shrugs, smiling, "I am mostly human."

His smile widens, "That you are."

She swallows, trying to keep her smile, but there is a fear tugging at it. "Now what?"

He quirks a brow, "Were you expecting more?"

And the way the heat rushes to her ears lets her know he knows the effect he has on her. She shakes her head, her disapproval and embarrassment clear. "I meant about you...me...us...the end of the world. What do we do now?"

He holds her gaze for a second too long before saying words Allison never once thought she'd hear from him, "What do you want to do?"

That's a loaded question she never once thought he'd ask.

She wants to be with him. In her own sick, little way, she wants this to be true and real, but a relationship with Lucifer in the middle of a war between heaven and hell, and the anti-Christ trying to bring forth Armageddon...relationships are hard _enough_.

"I want to stop him. Mykael. And then I want...I want it to stop. I want the wars to stop. If I can help it stop...if you can help it stop...we should try."

His smile is weak now, almost tired, "You couldn't be selfish, could you?"

"I guess, in that, I'm less human," she admits, knowing that, even though she had hoped this second life would bring her freedom from her past, she can't help but stare at what she knows she has to do.

"Very well. Get dressed. We're going to visit an old friend." He kisses her forehead before he stands up from the bed and she just gapes, like an idiot, because he truly is the most beautiful of all angels.

When he turns, catches her looking, he smiles, quirking a brow, "Well, we have time for one more..."

And before she can object, he's pulling the sheets off her and she's laughing as he's kissing her stomach, and gasping when he starting moving further south.

Today, she feels, she believes in miracles.


	16. Chapter 15 Gabriel's Guidance

"Heh, me lead you? Lady look at me, I don't even know where the hell I am half the time!" Jay (Dogma, 1999)

* * *

**Chapter 15. Gabriel's Guidance**

* * *

They find Gabriel in a diner, making a smiley face out of bacon and eggs, and Allison looks at John, confused, because angels don't need to eat...let alone make a portrait out of their meal.

John doesn't wait for her, instead he goes ahead and approaches the table, and as Gabriel is looking down and John is now too close, he doesn't catch Gabriel's smile.

Allison does.

He had been expecting them, she guesses.

"Gabriel."

"Lucifer, how nice of you to join me," he looks up, still smiling, "Please, have a seat. You, too, Hope. Or is it Allison?"

Allison shudders, a sense of recognition rippling through her, but she moves towards the table, sitting opposite of Gabriel, next to John, as they both politely decline the coffee – though she really feels like she could use it.

"Well, Lucifer, what do you need that I can, in the grace of the Almighty, decline?" Gabriel's smile is laced with a humor that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand, and run, and something about that fear makes her _want_ to run.

Something about Gabriel _scares_ her and it's like she can almost recognizes that fear – it's not like she's never known fear before, but this fear, it's too familiar.

"I don't have a request, Gabriel, as there's nothing you can give me that I cannot take myself." Lucifer's smile aims to match Gabriel's, but it doesn't, not even close, which makes Allison believe that maybe Lucifer is a better devil, only because evil is supposed to lull you into a false sense of hope...until it traps you. Heaven, in all its purity, can still make you afraid, and in that fear, you will know God. Or so they say. "Allison," he enunciates her name as if to answer Gabriel's question regarding her name. "Has something she needs of you."

"Oh?" His smile softens, somehow, as his eyes meet hers, "And what can I do for you, Allison, that the devil can't?"

And that makes her look at John who is still smiling. Even though she half-expected John to glare daggers into Gabriel's skull, both men are like statues, barely flinching or showing any emotion that could reveal anything.

They would be excellent poker players.

"I need to know something first," Allison decides to cut to the chase. "What side you're on?"

Gabriel quirks a brow, the smile growing wider, as he eyes John before continuing, "I see why you're so taken with her."

John simply leans back, hands joined over the table, but his smile already gone.

Gabriel leans forward, meeting her eyes until the rest of the room seems to disappear behind her. "What makes you think there's a side I'm not on?"

John voices a thought that Allison remembers him saying once, "The interests of Heaven and Hell are not always so different."

"You could say that," Gabriel gives a slight nod, and Allison doesn't buy it, not quite. "At this time, we have an interloper in our midst."

"Mykael," Allison whispers, earning herself a nod.

"By now, you are aware of his desires to make Earth his own playground, earning the respect of the likes of Marquis de Sade and, perhaps, even Caligula himself. While Lucifer here has always been a thorn on His side, even he isn't quite as," Gabriel bides his time searching for the right word, "ambitious."

"And you don't want that to happen?" Allison is hoping his answer is no because, with Gabriel on their side, she thinks they _might_ have a chance.

"I'm an angel, Allison, an arch. What happens on Earth does not concern me. However, as His angels, we do carry a certain amount of..." He sighs, aggravation laced in his tone, "responsibility. With our ranks divided, your question poses something of a complex answer. There are many sides now amongst His angels, and I can assure you, no side accepts Mykael's plan, not even the one that should be encouraging it."

Gabriel's eyes shift over to John's and she knows what that means.

Of course, the devil should want the anti-Christ to open hell on earth – after all, isn't that what Revelations is all about?

But there's one difference. They didn't count on Allison to be on John's radar of interest.

She doesn't want to address that right now, not with Gabriel in front of them.

"Can you help us?"

Gabriel laughs, slapping his hand on the table and making the utensils rattle. "Help you? Allison, you will soon learn, I cannot lead you through this battle."

"But Michael, he's made his move," she offers, "he made me out the guy running against my father and now Mykael is one step closer to what he wants."

Gabriel quirks a brow, leaning his chin on his hand as he rests his elbow on the table, "And Michael's actions should require a reaction from me? Is that what your logic implies?"

Allison groans, finally, unable to take much more of his evasions. "You know, for an angel, you're pretty much useless. We have a problem here. And by we, I mean us chosen by God, or by whatever series of events put us in this place, to keep Mykael from destroying the Earth. If Heaven and Hell want to compete against each other after that, fine, have at it, but we should not have to suffer the consequences of a creature when there are those above it that can do something about it."

Gabriel leans back, not even remotely impressed or affected by her words, "Don't you think you monkeys have a chance at changing things? Even now? Angels do not intervene. We move monkeys. We inspire you to take a chance, to cross a street, to take leap of faith. I think the real question here, Allison, is whether you can take that leap."

Gabriel slides out of the booth, moving to stand, and Allison stares at him, frustration and confusion touching her brow.

Gabriel takes her hand and she jumps, feeling something _hurt_, and she pulls it back, holding it to her chest and she feels John next to her, hand on her thigh, reassuring her.

"I look forward to having the chance to see you again, Allison, very soon." He switches his gaze to John, "Lucifer. I must say. Michael was wrong about one thing...you're not to trying to regain His affection, which might be the one thing that will grant you just that."

As he walks off, Allison looks ahead, the confusion not leaving her face, and the conversation replays in her mind.

"He didn't help us." Allison mutters in disbelief, near panic.

"I disagree," John looks out the glass window, seeing as Gabriel walks further away from them. "We've learned that we will receive no opposition from heaven's angels, regardless of how disinterested they may be in your well-being, meaning that Mykael's followers, should he have any, will be human, easily disposed of. As for disposing the man himself, that will be our next question and, once I learn it, we should have no obstacles."

She sighs, something in her chest _tightening_. "You make it sound so easy."

"Armageddon often is."


	17. Chapter 16 The Devil's Help

"I don't believe you."

* * *

**Chapter 16. The Devil's Help**

* * *

The idea of John walking her home isn't so strange – after everything they've been through, should she really think of anything as strange? But the fact that he keeps one hand on the small of her back as they walk, side-by-side, is _very_ strange, and not something she's accustomed to.

Not from him.

They've been quiet for the most part because, in truth, they're not seeing eye-to-eye, and after the second block, Allison honestly got tired of arguing.

She doesn't think it's going to be as easy as John makes it seem; find a weakness, a way to not just _kill_ Mykael-

"Killing him is not the difficult part, nullifying his plan is. I recall one time, long ago, when I thought having someone crucified and killed would've been a triumph but, somehow, it only strengthened him."

-but to destroy the path he needs to take what he wants.

To do that, John would have to evaluate every piece that would lead Mykael to his own version of the Promised Land.

Allison knows she's one of those pieces – John's already made it clear he wants her nowhere near him – her father is another piece and, so far, that's all they suspect.

He needs a political platform to rise and establish himself within society, to influence and control at will, and he needs Allison...for what? Her soul, what she is, makes her valuable, gives him strength? Creates a chasm within the fabric of the universe?

It's not a theory they're willing to test, for now, but it seems to be the proper order of events.

She's tired – of thinking, of fighting, of not being able to do _anything_ but realize and avoid – so when she reaches her door, finally, her whole body slumps in anticipation of the bed that awaits her.

When she walks through it, she's half-expecting John to follow her and immediately notices when he doesn't. She turns around, seeing as he stands outside her door.

"I have some business to tend to."

She frowns, "Okay."

"You can't follow where I mean to go," and with that, she knows _exactly_ where he plans to go. What answers he wants to find there, she's not sure of. "I will return for you."

Her heart sinks and she leans on the door frame, studying his face, the honesty in his features and yet... "I don't believe you."

He smiles, in spite of things, and picks her chin between his fingers, "Then you are learning, Allison."

She grabs his hand, giving it a soft squeeze, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," he kisses her knuckles and smiles. "The world is ending someday, Allison. I'm not preventing the event as a whole. I am just eliminating one possibility. I am who I am, who I will always be."

She nods, not really wanting to say anything _to_ that, lest they get into another argument.

Not that it's worth arguing that point to begin with.

_That_ truth she has never had trouble believing – and that's part of the problem.

It always will be.


	18. Chapter 17 Seek and Ye Shall Find

"The hind that would be mated by the lion must die for love." William Shakespeare, All's Well that Ends Well, 1.1

* * *

**Chapter 17. Seek and Ye Shall Find**

* * *

When John leaves Allison's apartment building, hands in his pockets, he doesn't try to go back to his "humble abode" – that is something he could easily do by opening any door on Earth.

Opposite of what most people believe, hell isn't found through a dark, mossy cave or a crack in the earth. No, hell is quite literally _everywhere_. To the devil himself, at least. His minions would have to go through certain spots – certain areas in the fabric of time – but John is hell personified. Any door he touches can lead him back home. Sometimes, he thinks, it's His punishment to him, to always remind him of the one fate he would never escape.

John stops by the diner and though Gabriel isn't there anymore, he can pick up his scent and follow it – it doesn't take him long to find him.

Gabriel is sitting on a bench, at the park, watching him from a distance, smiling.

He'd been waiting.

John crosses the street, half-expecting a car to simply run him over, but he knows Gabriel has turned a new leaf.

It's almost disappointing.

John takes his seat next to him, keeps his eyes ahead, scanning the crowd for people who would one day join his little herd of souls.

The majority already belongs to him.

"What is He planning, Gabriel?"

The question lingers in the air and John doesn't have to look his way to know Gabriel's smile has widened.

"And why would you concern yourself with His plans? You only view them as opportunities to rebel." Gabriel turns his body, slightly, angled to face John, who is still not meeting his eyes. "But you're not thinking about what you can do to ruin His plan." Gabriel laughs, "You're not even trying to bring forth your precious Apocalypse. You're trying to save your little nephalim."

It's John's turn to be silent for a moment – he's existed long enough to survive taunts. He made up most of them. Yet, Gabriel, has touched a nerve. That and, lately, he has been _feeling_ things...further than just mere lust.

He knows it doesn't bode well for him.

He shrugs, "The world might end a decade or a century from now, it makes no difference to me."

"Are you sure about that?" Gabriel leans his cheek on his open palm, "It's been how long, Lucifer? How long since you've stood before Him? How long since you've felt the bliss of being in His presence, with your brothers, listening to the celestial hymns? How long, Lucifer?"

To that, John quirks a brow, pretending to be bored as he meets Gabriel's eyes, finally. "How long did it take you, Gabriel, before you tried to rebel against Him? To take away that which He gave and complete your own method of evil? And how long did it take you until you went crawling back, begging for forgiveness?"

Gabriel smirks, "I didn't beg. I waited. Far less than you've had to wait."

John knows he's baiting him, and keeping him off-topic, which he's a fool for allowing.

He needs to re-think his strategy. "None of you have any intention of stopping Mykael. Why?"

"It's not part of His plan," Gabriel answers simply. "That task has been reserved for someone else."

"Allison," he sighs the name with a slight aggravation. This isn't news to him – he had suspected as such from the beginning, as she is the one Mykael needs to seal the prophecy, it is only sickeningly logical that she is the one needed to end it.

As if reading his mind, slightly, Gabriel adds, "She may be half-angel, Lucifer, but she is still so very human. She will die. They all do."

John knows this, he has always known this, but for some reason, this time, he's not very keen on the fact that the Almighty has chosen her as His sacrifice. "This way, she will die for Him."

"No, she will die for something much greater, something you've yet to attain but have come close to understanding." Off John's quirked brow, Gabriel smiles, "At least, not yet."

Gabriel moves to stand and John almost stands up after him, but thinks better of it – the devil does not chase after anyone – and keeps looking ahead, trying to find comfort in the presence of sin, a domain still belonging to him.

Gabriel turns, no longer smiling, "You may want to find that weapon of yours, Lucifer. You may be a miserable cherub, sometimes, but she deserves better than the fate she will inevitably choose for herself. Maybe you can stop her, maybe you can't. It'd be interesting to see you try," the corner of his lip curls at that last statement, smiling, and John remains somber, knowing what this may mean.

Allison might not have to die, not if he finds it first, though part of him feels – he is tired of feeling – that it won't be enough.


	19. Chapter 18 A Dream that Haunts

"Picture Prompt #12: A cemetery covered in mist."

* * *

**Chapter 18. A Dream that Haunts**

* * *

Allison hadn't meant to go to sleep – not really – just a nap, after having spoken to her mother, wanting to hear a voice reminding her why she's doing what she's doing and why she's fighting to protect them, even if she's not sure exactly how much of it is working.

Her father and mother are still separated, nothing has changed in that front, but her mother sounds happier, almost hopeful, and though the divorce isn't final – Allison doubts that, traditionalists as they are, but it's a start.

She doesn't recall how her mind spiraled out of control, her dreams usually strange, bouncing from one idea to the next, but this time, it's like there was only one path and she was forced to follow it.

She dreams of a cemetery, tomb stones perfectly aligned next to each other, and it's not like the one where they buried the little girl.

No, this one feels familiar yet eerily alien, because she doesn't know exactly who she's looking for.

There are trees everywhere and it reminds her of somewhere her mom took her to when she was little, to visit her "grandparents'" grave, she thinks, but can't be sure, as it is too dark for her to tell.

She's dressed in white, a long silk gown, and the fog should make her shiver with cold, but she doesn't feel anything, only...sadness.

She's holding a flower – a single, white rose – and she stops by a tombstone, vines surrounding it so that she can't make out the letters, at first.

She sits on her knees, the earth pressing into her skin like rocks, but it doesn't hurt so much as it simply _feels_ like it should.

She reaches out to touch the vines, to pull them aside, and it takes some effort – the vines are green, strong, hard to break, as if they just recently grew there – and she doesn't realize she's crying until she's groaning, pulling apart each vine, almost screaming with each attempt.

She sees a name, one name, and it almost breaks her heart to read.

_Catherine Crowe_...her mother.

The date has been scratched out. But the year is clear, the month not hard to discern.

It's _this_ month, _this_ year.

Suddenly, her dream seems less like a dream and more like a nightmare.

Then everything _begins_ to hurt.

She drops the white rose on the soil. The petals turns red and then simply begin to bleed out, all over the soil, until it touches her dress and she tries to wipe it off, crying, but it's not working.

She looks around her, feels eyes watching her, but she can only scream, covered in blood, as a hand reaches from the grave and pulls her down into the ground.


	20. Chapter 19 Gabriel's Secret

"Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved." William Jennings Bryan

* * *

**Chapter 19. Gabriel's Secret**

* * *

Allison wakes up gasping for hair, clutching at her throat, trying to clear her wind-pipe. She's coughing, her eyes sting with tears and she feels _hot_, almost like she's burning up, though in her dream, she knows she had been freezing.

When she gathers herself, she looks around the room, finally, and sees the outline of a shadow – someone is in her room. She reaches for her lamp immediately and doesn't feel in any way surprised to see Gabriel standing at the foot of her bed.

Her eyebrows furrow, anger and fear mixing inside of her. "Was that you?"

He quirks a brow, "I thought you monkeys could read. It wasn't my tombstone."

"But you know what I was dreaming about," she presses.

"All angels know what you dream of," he waves it off, bored, ignoring the shocked look on her face – not all of her dreams have been nightmares, she knows. "I think the question you should be asking me is, was it just a dream, or a prophecy?"

He sits beside her on the bed and Allison edges away, not quite trusting her experience with archangels lately.

"Does it matter?" Her look is pure defiance.

Gabriel laughs, "Not bad for a half-monkey."

"Why her? She hasn't done anything," she throws off the bed sheet, looking through her closet for something to wear – she can't really go to her mom's hotel room wearing her PJ's.

"Do you really think you were born into that family by accident?"

Allison goes to the bathroom but keeps the door slightly ajar so that she can continue the conversation as she changes. "Obviously not," she shouts, remembering her father's involvement in Mykael's plans. "But my mother has nothing to do with politics." She may have married an ambitious, sometimes heartless politician, and may have a political family, but her mother is not involved in any of their messes.

Suddenly, it dawns on her, and Allison pulls the door open, even though she's only wearing her jeans and her bra – her shirt in her hand – and she locks eyes with Gabriel, who is smiling.

"No," she murmurs, "No. He can't. He won't."

"It's either you or her," he shrugs, ignoring the fact she's half-naked in front of him, "he'll have to pick one."

"But, she's not a nephalim," she sits on the arm chair nearby, confused, "he can't...not...with her."

His smile is completely evil, "And who told you she's not?"

This makes her raise her eyes at him, gaping, "John-"

"Lucifer," Gabriel corrects, "would not have wanted you to know."

"How do I know I can trust you? Michael-"

"You can choose to trust us, or you can choose not to, but really, Allison, are you saying you are going to trust the intentions of the devil over the intention of a couple of archs?"

She bites her lip, swallowing at the fact that, yes, part of her would trust John over them, but she won't admit that to him. "I don't trust any of you, but I trust my faith, and somehow, I don't believe you."

"Well, maybe you'll believe this," he leans forward, hands joined. "In your previous life, I told you a secret...a very important secret. It's time for you to remember."

Allison blinked and, as her eyes opened, she couldn't _see_. Everything was black, complete darkness. She could feel movement, like an air duct, pulling her in, faster, until the images start taking shape.

It's like the film reel of a movie, showing her life, from the moment she was born to the moment she met her brother, and then...him. The angel that had her killed. Stark. Michael was speaking with him, telling him to stay away from Allison, and then Gabriel, telling him that Allison must die.

Then, later on, Michael and Gabriel, standing side by side, and on the day of her death, they both carried her soul with them, keeping it away from John, until they chose her next body, the one that would finally have the choice to carry the weight of the end of the world.

Allison closes her eyes, finally – they burn – and when she opens her eyes, her sight is blurry, but she knows he's still there. She buries her face in her hands and sobs quietly into her hand. When her chest stops shaking and she feels somewhat able to lift her head up to gaze at him, she sighs, "Is that what this was all about? Protecting the book only to end the boy who was revealed on that last chapter?"

Gabriel's not smiling, for once. "Destiny...it's not what people think. You make choices. They will lead you down different paths but the goal remains the same. Lucifer changed your path when he killed your parents, but he created a new one, one that united him with you."

Allison scoffed at that. If John knew killing her parents would've united them in whatever sick relationship they now have, he probably would've tried very hard to keep them alive.

She sighs, tiredly, "What is it you want me to do?"

"It's not what we want you to do, Allison." This beckons a glare from Allison, but Gabriel continues, "It's what you were always meant to do and whether or not you can do it."

"If I do it...it'll save her...and him." She meant to phrase it as a question but her faith wants it to be a fact, plain and simply.

Gabriel smiles, "You would try to save him? The fallen one?"

"I would." She sniffles, unashamed. "You wouldn't, Michael wouldn't, but I would. And He would, too."

"Is that your faith talking?" He smiles, softly, "Just your faith?"

"Yes," she lies. "It is."

And even though it isn't, even though when it comes to John, it's not just about faith, but much more than that, it doesn't change anything.

She knows what she has to do.


	21. Chapter 20 The Spear of Destiny

"It is strange to be known so universally and yet to be so lonely." Albert Einstein

* * *

**Chapter 20. The Spear of Destiny**

* * *

The heat that touches his skin doesn't burn; it soothes him.

The fire that rages underneath him would burn the skin of any mortal, but to him, it's as comfortable as a warm bath, simply washing everything away.

He knows if he lingers here for too long – listening to the wreathing screams of those who failed to be exactly what God wanted them to be – he will forget all about the world, about Mykael, about Allison, or maybe he won't.

He knows he can't allow himself to try.

He hears from his general, his minions, who have all been ordered to stay away from Mykael, that Mykael has been trying to recruit some of his children.

That makes John smile.

None have turned against him – not yet – because even though Mykael promises hell on earth, there is no hell worse than the one John has already been condemned to and the one that he keeps inside himself.

It makes him smile at the thought that Allison could be concerned _for_ him.

He has not looked into Mykael's eyes – they've not been in the same room, even, in order for this to happen – but he knows, all those who look into his eyes, should he want to, he could condemn them to a single glance of the worst pain mankind has ever known.

And he carries it with him.

He is known for it, worshiped for it, feared for it and, at times, pitied for it.

No one has ever tried to look for anything else, within his eyes, until now.

He reaches a wall in the darkest coves of his domain. He walks through it, revealing a darkened room where the only light is in the center of the room, a glass case, holding inside the one weapon he prides himself on.

He reaches out for the lance but feels his skin already burning.

He can't touch it without pain – he never has been able to, but he always has other means of handling the weapon. He had to enchant and trick a particularly foolish woman in order to obtain it.

He knows Allison is an interesting brand of pure, but he doesn't know if she'd be capable of wielding the power that this lance brings...

He beckons one of his minions and orders them to find a pure woman, equally foolish and submissive to mind-control.

He'd use the woman as a carrier and then let Allison decide if saving the world is worth killing for.


	22. Chapter 21 Mykael's Last Battle

"I didn't think you'd come for me." (River, Ep. 01 - "Serenity")

* * *

**Chapter 21. Mykael's Last Battle**

* * *

Allison had known, when John told her about the lance, that something strange would happen.

It felt ominous – being able to hold it in her hands – and she's familiar with enough theology to know the story behind the lance, the "Spear of Destiny", as some would call it, to know that wielding it would not come at no small price.

But then that strange lady came to her, offering her the lance, as if it had known Allison's answer before she even chose to give John an answer.

She couldn't simply turn her back on it.

Even now, she doesn't regret her choice.

* * *

John knew when he told her about the spear that it would be like he first felt when he offered the apple to Eve except, this time, the temptation held little pleasure to his desires.

However, she was already staying with her mother, resolved in confronting Mykael, with or without a weapon – foolish? Always – and he knew he had to make her take it.

If she didn't, she'd have no chance, no chance at all, and he wasn't ready to lose her, not that way.

Right now, he realizes, maybe, he was never meant to have her.

* * *

His hand is burning, a guttural scream still stuck in his throat, seething hate toward himself rather than Mykael, because he is the one who acted too slowly.

_It had happened too fast._

_Mykael had aimed to shoot Allison's mother._

_Allison, who had discarded the lance after touching it – John should've known, her heart was too human, not nephalim enough, for her to wield it – had stepped in between them._

_Shooting Allison had been pointless – yes, it caused a reaction, as her mother held a bleeding Allison in her arms and her own father, finally, acted against Mykael and tried to stop him._

_He was killed shortly after._

_John had been watching from a distance – unable to intervene, like most angels – when he saw Mykael reach for the spear and, then, something impossible happened._

_He held it._

_He could touch it._

_If there is something the devil cannot tolerate, it's competition._

_By the time John made it over there, it was already too late._

_Mykael had used the spear to kill both mother and child, by standing behind them when the last blow was struck._

_If anyone would've borne witness to the scene and placed it on a canvas, it would've made it into history as a tragic portrait, revered by the most prestigious of museums._

_Her mother had her on her lap as Allison coughed blood, trying to move in spite of the gaping wounds the bullets had formed. Mykael stood behind them, spear in his hand, and killing them both._

_For a moment, John wondered if that had been their plan all along – if Michael and Gabriel had moved him to this moment. If God Himself had tricked him into feeling and, just like He had many times before, beat him at his own game._

_But, in one split second, it didn't matter, because he knew what he wanted to do._

_He had given in to a feeling._

John watches as Mykael's skin turns to ash and his own skin burns from touching the spear.

He had fought Mykael for it, even as the earth shook and heaven threatened to break – a sound that, on any occassion, John would've taken pleasure in hearing – John simply used one end to pull it towards himself and used his body to drive the sharp edge into Mykael.

As the wind carries Mykael's ashes away, John falls on his knees, sweating, because he had just seen the end slip away from his grasp only to be faced with the death of the one person he had already lost once, now twice.

He's looking at the ground when, finally, a hand removes the spear from his hands – Michael – and he looks up, seeing the arch's soft smile – not mocking, just knowing – and it gives him the courage he needs to look at Allison.

She's smiling at him, blood trailing down from the corner of her lip and he can see her breathing still.

"You came," she whispers.

He had told her he wouldn't.

It wasn't his war, he had said.

He had lied.

He doesn't have any words – he can't say anything, yet he feels everything and, as he moves to stand, he turns and sees Gabriel, his head tilted to the side.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

He shakes his head.

He's done.

They can have her, have the spear, have their war.

He doesn't have anything to win and he has no interest in anything else he can lose.


	23. Chpt 22 John's Last Chance at Happiness

"None of us find as much happiness in this life as we should." Chairman (Memoirs of a Geisha, 2005)

* * *

**Chapter 22. John's Last Chance at Happiness**

* * *

Back on Earth, people are none the wiser about how close the world came to ending and how it was stopped, partly, by the existence of a nephalim and the choice the devil.

The news told of how the Crowe family had been mugged and murdered, some say by a cult, and the word "Satanic" had been thrown around a bit.

They would never know that the devil himself saved them – tried to save Allison, but had made the choice too late.

No one remembers Mykael – the spear had erased him from existence – but John remembers.

He remembers everything.

And for what may or may not be another millennium, he will remember, with no end to look forward to.

* * *

John doesn't leave hell these days.

He used to lurk around the most interesting corners of the world, making appearances in events that require his "special" attention, but the world doesn't interest him at the current moment, it doesn't quite appease him, so he finds himself simply sitting on his so-called throne, looking across a table, contemplating what he could've done different.

Such a pointless action, he knows, as nothing will change the past, but part of him wishes he never would've crossed paths with her.

She was his apple, created by God, and the irony isn't lost to him.

"Lucifer."

He hears his name, but the voice alerts him to something else, something _impossible_.

He doesn't turn around – though he wants to – and he simply keeps his hand, face down on the table, but the one on the armchair has formed a fist, nails digging into his skin.

She enters is peripheral vision. She's wearing her hair back in a ponytail, a worn-out gray coat and it's open, so he can see the black trousers and blouse she's wearing underneath.

The truth of things nearly slaps him in the face.

"Angels are not welcome here," he mutters simply.

She smiles and it makes every vein on his body simply tighten, an odd feeling.

"Who said I was an angel?"

To that, he quirks a brow.

"I would imagine, as a ghost, you would've picked something far more fashionable to wear." He observes her plain demeanor, knowing well it's one of the thing many of His angels often exercise – humility in all things.

Gabriel, however, often skipped parts of that lesson.

She sighs, leaning her hip on the table, "The offer was made...but I didn't take it."

That piques his interest. "You refused...heaven. I must say, a second death has yet to give you any wisdom."

She shrugs, slight smile in her eyes, "If I was looking for wisdom, there's a lot of things I could've done without on my way there."

He doesn't say anything to that – can't – not without the images of her in his arms – under him, above him – playing in his mind, uninvited.

"John," he hasn't heard that name some time now and it almost makes him smile, for some odd reason.

"Then you've failed to understand wisdom, Allison," he stands, pushing the chair back, "it's not about what you could have done without, but what you did with what you were given."

Now that they're both standing, the air between them cackles, an energy flowing through both of them as if finally finding the conduit towards each other.

"You came back for me," she murmurs and he closes his eyes, remembering.

He had never left her – not really – but he could not allow himself to intervene, not until the risk of losing her became apparent and, by then, it had been too late.

"And, it seems, you've come to return the favor?" He's a very good actor, the best of liars, but the smile she is wearing now makes him think that he's out of practice.

"It's a little more complicated than that." Off his quirked brow, "I don't belong here. I didn't exactly receive a warm welcome there, either." The smile that tugs at her lips is surprising. She's adopted a kind of mischief he hadn't quite thought her capable of. "So, I made a choice and He..." She takes a step forward, towards him, "He was okay with it."

"Okay with what, exactly?" He knows their proximity will give him five minutes, at most, before he loses his composure and buries himself in her.

She smiles, "The fact that I choose to be neither from heaven or hell, I choose to exist as what I've always been, to be with who I've always been."

The clock is spinning in his head and he know it won't be long now. "Are you some sort of nephalim vigilante?"

She smirks, "Something like that. And the best part," her hand touches his cheek and it is _warmer_ in comparison than anything he has ever known. "I get to choose happiness this time. There's no book, no anti-Christ, just me."

"And a war," he's trying to resist, trying to keep some shred of dignity that comes from being the second most powerful being in the universe.

She frowns, shrugging, "Something I've learned on my path to wisdom," that tugs a weak smile from her lips, "there will always be another war. We just have to live through it." She presses her forehead against his, her eyes still open, "is it wrong if I choose to live it like this, with you?"

"Allison," he sighs, "has He finally concocted a punishment sick enough to actually cause me pain?"

That's when she kisses him and he tightens his grip on her hips – how his hands got there, he isn't sure – and he breathes her in, forcing her to be real.

It is her skin, her lips, her scent – everything about her is real.

When she detaches – he had allowed the pace to be slow, preferring a slow torture to a quick release – he opens his eyes and see the moist glistening in her eyes.

She smiles, "I'm not a punishment, Lucifer. I'm a second chance. Everyone deserves to be happy, even you."

He doesn't believe her – he doubts he ever will – but for now, he will take what he is offered, because now the game has changed and he has no intention of losing her, and although part of him considers this his third chance, perhaps she's right.

It would be his second because now, he knows what he had lost, what he had experienced and what he had turned away from.

He won't do it again.


End file.
